He Loves Me He is Here
by BethyBathory
Summary: An erotic retelling of the classic tale. Historically accurate (to the best of our ability) Christine, an impoverished young dancer from the Paris Opera catches the attention of a mysterious Opera Ghost and becomes his student. But when the young woman begins to develop strong feelings for her tutor, will everything come crashing down upon her? Could he possibly feel the same way?
1. Chapter 1

**AN:** Hello Everybody! I'm back with something a little different. The basis of this story is this: my husband and I like to write/role-play erotic stories and we thought this one was interesting enough to publish here. Both his and my writing are intermingled, so by necessity, this story's point of view is 3rd Person Omniscient and there may be some stylistic whiplash, which we have tried to minimize.

This is a retelling of The Phantom of The Opera as an erotic fiction, so a strong rating of M. It will not follow the canon story line and yes, it is HEA... eventually. In this story, there is an amalgamation of Phantoms and Christines. Try to read this with an open mind as we picked qualities and character traits that appealed to us and inserted some of our own at will. We hope you enjoy reading this as much as we enjoyed writing it!

 **AN2** : Currently in the process of being re-edited, so my apologies for the constant pinging if you are following this.

 **He Loves Me; He is Here**

 **-o-**

 _"Farewell past, happy dreams of days gone by. The roses in my cheeks already are_ faded." _Verdi, La Traviata_

-o-

~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Chapter 1 ~~~~~~~~~~~

The year was 1889. France- the fickle, emotional mistress that she was- teetered on its last legs of stability between economic depression and La Belle Epoche, The Golden Age, where art flourished and redefined the world. People were starving, but their heads and hearts were filled with the gluttonous power of music, movement, and color.

The Palaise Garnier rose from the ashes of greed and humanity and shone like a phoenix reborn. To even look upon it, one was filled with the heady pull of beauty and artistry.

Christine thought all of this as she craned her neck to stare at the stone gargoyles and angels peering down at her. She was known as the quiet one, the reserved one; hard to make smile and harder to upset. But her mind always sped like blurring horses at a racetrack. It was impossible for her to quiet her mind enough to focus on such mundane things as idle conversation or menial tasks. As such, many thought her slow and delicate. But in her head, she felt like anything but. While standing in front of the greatest theatre on earth, her thoughts quieted, focused. It was her church- her sanctuary - she knew it immediately.

It was her eighth month at the ballet conservatoire. She was chosen as a supernumerary in the upcoming Opera. Faust. While she did not get to dance in the ballet quite yet, the opportunity to simply stand on the glorious stage while such beautiful music was created around her was enough to make her cry with joy.

She had never entered this building - oh, she was much too poor to attend such majestic outings!— but it had been a part of her dreams since she was a young girl. With a mixture of reverence and fear, she stepped through the understated doorway off of La Rue Scribe. She was met with darkness and clutter- stagehands and costumers running through the hallway, nearly colliding into each other but never daring to slow their pace.

With wide eyes, Christine ambled down the hallway, peeking into rooms, trying to find the stage. Eventually she found a sign directing performers to the Dancer's Foyer. The door was open and the room was filled with ballet dancers stretching and gossiping, actors contorting their faces and creating bizarre noises from grimacing lips. There were a couple men in lovely suits pressing closely to some of the younger performers, who in turn either shrank back with trepidation or pressed back with boldness. It was a circus. She looked for any familiar face, but found none.

She almost turned around and left when she heard her name being called. It was Meg Giry! She was a year or two younger than Christine, but had already made the ballet corps- although her mother was the revered ballet mistress, one would find it difficult to ignore Meg's legitimate talent and her deserving of the role.

Christine smiled and rushed over to the little ballet rat and engaged herself in a friendly embrace.

Meg was glowing! "Oh, isn't this exciting, Christine! Both of us, on the greatest stage in the world!" Little Meg was endearingly prone to the dramatic.

Christine smiled and nodded, pulling her tattered shall closer to her body. "It is a dream come true," she answered quietly in her richly melodic voice.

The flurry of activity was wild with stagehands and costumers, coaches and promoters flurrying about. Today was the first staging rehearsal of the new production of Faust, and expectations were high, to say the least. The opera itself had its premier delay for a year following its composition. The reason? It was far too pedestrian for the attendees of the Paris Opera. No, deals with the devils were simply insufficient in today's Parisian culture. As a result, the work had been rewritten; an orgiastic ballet added to the fifth act of the work, the flawed and damned protagonist dining and carousing with witches and devils while his ill fated love languished in jail for the murder of their love child; which of course, he had abandoned. Critics would comment that this had little to do with the grand plot of the work and only really served to delay the conclusion of the story. None the less, the audiences of this time demanded nothing less. This was the height of Grand Opera in France. Meaning, this was the aperture where rich men could come and ogle the legs of women and for a price, perhaps even take one home for the night.

In all consideration, Paris was a little behind the times when it came to opera tradition. Italy had moved on to its gritty and brutal slices of life; Verismo, they were calling it. But truly, who would like to spend an entire night watching a poor bunch of artists struggle, only to have the diva die in a paltry third act of tuberculosis? That sounded like Tuesday night, and a commonplace, dull, Tuesday night at that. Germany had never really recovered after Wagner; no one truly ascending to his heights. And, on the cusp of the rise of the Second Viennese School which would push their music in a far more atonal direction.

No, the City of Lights demanded more. And the Paris Opera gave this. Faust was rewritten to fulfill all the lusty demands of the people.

Christine saw the results of such demands in the beautifully designed Dancer's Foyer, which she heard once was specifically created for patrons to slip into the back and snag a ballerina.

From some hidden door, a stage manager entered, barking, "Ladies and gentlemen, we'll begin with act two. The street scene."

Christine grinned at Meg and eagerly followed the crowd.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN:** Thank you for the reviews! You're all wonderful.

~o~

 _I have lived for art; I have lived for love. - - Puccini, Tosca_

 _~o~_

 _ **Chapter 2**_

 _No wonder they prefer to use dancers as supernumerarie_ s, thought Christine. She had been walking here and there and up and down for over an hour. Even now, she was on a balcony standing on sore feet, watching the blocking below. The director was brusk and exacting, quick to yell at a wayward chorus member or stop the entire run to scold a 'super' singing with the chorus. That had been Christine. Her face was still red as a beet from that particular exchange.

 _Oh, anything to just sit down for a brief minute. Some water would probably be too much to ask for._ The electric stage lights were not in use, but the stage was stifling nonetheless, and Christine felt faint in her woolen dress, crushed against the bodies of other women.

But still, when she looked out into the red sea of empty seats, she couldn't help but smile in gratitude.

There was yelling down below, which caught her attention. A large, brightly dressed woman had stomped onto the stage and was focusing her shrill voice toward the director. Uncharacteristically, the man did not scold her back but instead sighed and rubbed his forehead in exasperation. She couldn't quite make out his response, but the woman's voice easily carried throughout the house. "And I said to skip ahead to my entrance! I have been waiting for nearly ten minutes! It is an abomination to have the diva wait! My time is precious and is not to be wasted."

"Signora, please. We just need to finalize this staging. You will come in soon, I promise," the exhausted and exasperated staging director replied.

This was no use, as a man in an elegant overcoat spoke. One of the owners and not a man to be trifled with. "Please, to her entrance!"

This would rile the bass who was on stage. The second act had progressed to the beginning of his aria, which would actually take some challenging movement; that required actual actions of the chorus and supers. The tall, thin man with his thick Russian accent began to retort, "Utterly ridiculous! Signora can wait her turn! You choose her scenes over my scenes!" The Soprano chimed back in, and the scene simply unravelled from there.

"We move on to the quartet. Supernumeraries upper stage right, you are dismissed. Be back at 1:00! Sharp!" the stage manager barked as the argument continued, the bass just enraged even more that the spoiled soprano had her way.

Christine breathed a sigh of relief and followed the other spear-carriers off of the stage. Meg had rushed off with the ballet rats, so she found herself with no one to talk to. So instead, she explored. She stayed close, but walked up and down the house aisles and peeked into dark corners to see what strange equipment there was.

Her wandering took her down a short hallway, into one of the adjacent rehearsal rooms. The sound of the hustle and bustle of the stage faded dramatically when she entered this room, the natural acoustics of it dampening the sounds outside.

The piano was ready, lid up; almost begging her to play it.

She didn't play the piano, but the urge to touch its ivory keys brought her right up to it. With one hand, she caressed the ivory for a moment, then played the one chord she knew- the c major triad. She smiled and started plucking out a shaky tune- an old Irish ditty her father had taught her. As she progressed, she started humming along. After a couple of verses, she shifted her stance and began to sing in a soft, sweet timber.

" _...The priest and the friars approach me in dread,_  
 _Because I love you still, My Life, and you're dead._  
 _I still would be your shelter through rain and through storm,_  
 _And with you in your cold grave-I cannot sleep warm_..." she faded off and stared into the distance, half-realized thoughts buzzing around her like flies.

Every practice room had a mirror. They were expected, and essential: Giving the singer the opportunity to watch their form, see how they shaped their vowels, identify and correct any visual tension that might be present.

What she was unaware of was that this mirror stared back at her. The other side was inhabited and a frustrated figure gazed at her from the other side. His gaze had narrowed as he listened to her simple singing. It was so simple, so pure. Innocent, vulnerable. Yet, there was a shimmer present, a depth of core that came naturally. So much potential. So much unused opportunity. Had he seen her before? No, he hadn't. Or had he? A dancer? She looked it, beautiful and fair-skinned with wild dark hair. He had not observed the ballet rehearsals for some time now...Perhaps he should.

Christine was snapped out of her daydreams by the distant calling of the director. She cursed inelegantly and lifted the front of her skirts to run back to the auditorium. She skittered into the room and everyone stopped and stared at her. Face blazing, she curtsied and apologized and attempted to blend into the crowd.

The figure behind the mirror moved to the shadows to observe the rest of the rehearsal. Disorganized. Inefficient. The staging director's vision of the new production was constantly interrupted and disrupted by the soprano who put up a fight any time she was less than the center of attention, despite being a triad of three main characters. This simply would not continue, the shadow thought, it could not.

After another hour of blocking... and arguing and pouting... the leads were sent home and the ballet mistress took over, teaching the supers a simple waltz.

At last, a bit of sanity in a day that was all but frustrating. How could the company - his company! - flourish if they were led and surrounded by such fools? The shadow forced such thoughts away as he began to watch the ballet with growing interest. The girl whom he saw earlier was there. She was a dancer - a good dancer at that- but it was clear that her talents lie elsewhere.

Christine did not leave the theatre until the sky was black as ink and the temperature had dropped. Exhausted, she trailed behind the other ballet rats who lived in the conservatoire. Not all did, but if you were orphaned like Christine or had family far away, there were accommodations provided. These accommodations were... perfectly acceptable. Truly there was nothing to complain about them, but there was nothing to compliment either. The space was just big enough, just clean enough, just crowded enough where no one could complain. But it would be hard for any of them to consider it a home. So Christine walked the two blocks to her lodging and after performing her nightly ablutions at the stern hand of the mistress of the house, she collapsed into bed and fell promptly asleep. For she would have to do it all again tomorrow.

The Ballet mistress, however, would linger behind in the theatre, doing the slightest bit of tidying. Yes, the work was beneath her, but she knew well enough that her presence was needed

.Her patience would be rewarded soon enough. The walls themselves echoed, the sound a strange, hollow reverberation.

"Who is she? The girl you taught. The fresh faced one on her first day?"

Madame Giry startled. She couldn't help it; she did it everytime he announced his presence with only an ethereal voice echoing in her head. Her eyebrows knitted together as she wracked her brain for a moment. "Ah." She smoothed her facial features into a bland expression and straightened up, speaking to nothing and no one in the empty space.

"You mean Christine Daae. She has been at the ballet conservatoire for almost a year now. She was chosen to be a super for this production." Her brow lost its smoothness. "Why? Did she get herself into trouble in just one day? If she disturbed anything of yours, I will make sure it will not happen again. "

"No. Not at all," said the velvet voice, " She proved to be a breath of fresh air in a day full of stagnant, fetid corpses yakking about. Did they forget so soon the entire purpose of this new production? Something bold. Provocative. Treading the thin line of pure and perverse. Yet, they go against my orders and hire that Carlotta...and... him. That bass is as boorish as the soprano."

He calmed his rage for a moment, the voice that seemed to echo in the walls..no, in her head...returning to a more patient tone. "Christine." It was silk on his tongue. "Does she show much promise?"

Giry looked suspicious, but answered promptly. "Not... much. She will most likely make the corps de ballet in a couple of years, but she is not a brilliant dancer. She lacks the drive. And, honestly, the social aptitude."

"Has she been heard for the chorus?" he asked, pausing; the machinations of his mind clearly churning.

"...she has never inquired. Frankly, I don't think she could afford it." Giry continued with a healthy amount of caution, "Monsieur Le Phantom, why are you interested in Mademoiselle Daae?"

"Her voice. It has a...quality that is lacking in the opera of today. A simplicity, an honesty that is notably silent when one listens to the divas that we are hiring." He fell silent for a long moment "See that she returns to this room once more. Tomorrow."

Madame Giry knew she was speaking to an empty room as she expressed her dissatisfaction.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN** : I know little about what the conservatoire would have been like or even where it would stand, so that building is under artistic license. However, the Opera House itself is accurate to the best f my knowledge.

~o~

" _Ah, come back again as you were then, then when I gave you my heart, Ah, come back to me…" Bellini, Norma_

~o~

Chapter 3

~o~

Ballet lessons began early. The corps de ballet often chose to rehearse in the attic of the Palais. The gorgeous large round windows pressed into bland white walls and bled the morning light into the studio with abandon.

There were other ballet rehearsal rooms within the theatre, but the company preferred the natural light and the undecorated openness of the attic.

The ballet rats, those not yet accepted into the Corps, got the plain rehearsal hall three blocks away.

Christine was still in her ballet ensemble as she followed the girls down to the first floor of the conservatoire for lunch. Lunch, gratefully, was always provided to them. For some, on the bad days, it was their sole meal.

Christine ate her meal in silence, as she always did, apart from the other girls, lost in her own head. She was pondering. Again. Madame Giry had approached her earlier and asked her to stay behind after the Faust rehearsal. She had asked why but the stoic woman had been tight-lipped.

Christine worried that she was in trouble. _Great_ she thought, _I manage to get kicked out after the first day._

After lunch was more training. Often these lessons focused more on how to act off of the stage rather than on. One had to be alluring- attractive in both manner and body to gain a patron who could sustain or elevate her carrier. The thought made Christine a little sick, but it was a necessary evil.

Finally, she was able to dress in her thread-bare grey dress and her woolen shawl and make her way to the theatre. Again, her heart soared as she was enveloped into the opera's beauty and opulence.

This rehearsal, unsurprisingly, went about as well as the last.

Then suddenly, it was evening. When the sky was black, everyone filed out of the theatre, happy to go home. It had been a long day, and they were exhausted and ready to go home. They did not notice the small woman in the worn dress lingering.

She'd cross by a portion of the wall with a small vent in it. As she walked by, she'd hear a voice: hollow, unearthly, all encompassing...As well as seductive. She wouldn't be able to comprehend it, but it was charismatic beyond her understanding.

"The practice room," it called out in its deep timber.

She furrowed her brow and looked around, finding no other living soul. She licked her lips and carefully began to walk again, ignoring the voice.

As she began to walk away from the practice room, she'd find that the doors to leave the stage area were locked. The only other way for her to leave would be through the dancers room behind the stage.

She exhaled, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. She wrapped her shawl more tightly around her and made her way through the golden dancer's foyer.

The grand room was empty, save for her.

"Practice room. Now." The ethereal voice echoed across the hall, this time not coming from a singular source at all but from all around her.

She swallowed audibly, eyes searching frantically. Slowly , she heeded to the voice, making her way to the room she had happened upon the other night.

When she entered it, she found the room empty. The piano cover was up, and on it was a piece of music. Upon inspection, it was the Jewel Song, from Faust...As if begging her to sing it.

Overall, Christine felt very blessed with her upbringing, lonesome and poverty-stricken as it was. Her father had taught her to read using hymnals and the odd libretto, so music notes were as familiar to her as the alphabet.

She paced a bit, reading the music, beginning to hum a bit. Then she began to sing. The key was higher than written, so her squeaks on the high notes did not sound particularly impressive to her ears, but her mind was fully wrapped around the beautiful notes.

As she worked on the aria, the sound of a piano began to echo through the room.

"Hum," an ethereal disembodied voice instructed her. The sound of the piano spelled out a major triad, starting on G, arpegiating upwards. The voice, as it seemed, was warming her up.

She startled and stared at the piano when the music began. The piano keys were still and silent, but the sound of scaling notes filled her ears.

She stood there, mouth open, with no sound coming out. Was this some joke? Was she being haunted? What was going on?

Again, the arpegiated triad sounded. "Humm. Sing for me." The voice was low, compelling, commanding.

Her mouth still agape, a small squeak exited her throat, before she did as was commanded of her. At first she was warbly and unsure, but her voice soon settled into the arpeggio and soared, the act of singing soothing her unease like a balm.

The sound began to ascend in the scale. That exercise would blend into another, and another; moving from closed lip hums to lip trills to open mouthed vocalizes. They started low and went lower- or began in her middle voice and ascended. All the while she heard the strange voice around her; inside her head, as it were, giving the smallest instructions, the slightest modifications to her sound

 _"Good. Now do not drop your jaw so much next time."_

 _"What vowel are you singing? That. Yes, I thought so."_

 _"That vowel. Don't move your jaw so much. Move your tongue to the dental ridge. Yes. Like that_."

She felt like she was being prodded by a house doctor! Even with no physical force touching her body, she was moved and manipulated like a marionette. During the lip trills, she stopped and laughed. Surely this was some gag! But the weighted, serious silence that followed sobered her and she tried to ignore the tickling of her lips as she proceeded to blow air through them.

It was a good twenty minutes of this. " _Yes. Like that. Good."_ All positive feedback. The vocalizing took her from the softest of tones to the loudest; and moments of triumph would be confirmed by adoring praise from her ethereal tutor.

"Yes. That. What a glorious sound. Now then, we are ready. Sing, vowels only."

He sang to demonstrate it; moving through the piece; gliding from one vowel to the next; skipping the consonants. The effect was an incredibly smooth feel to the piece, allowing her to feel how each vowel connected to each other, the concept of legato singing being demonstrated to her. His voice was an elegant tenor; darker than most she would hear on this stage, yet highly trained.

Finally, after a surprising amount of work, he began to play the accompaniment of the Jewel Song.

She almost didn't come in. That voice! It was like nothing she had ever heard! It was barely human! Surely, it must be some ethereal creature!

As she began singin, she heard demands for little modifications. Keep her head level with the floor, release her tongue forward, engage with her abdominals more. The result would be a sound which she didn't know she was capable of producing.

She had no idea it could feel like this- singing. She had fond memories of laying in the hay on a summers day and singing to the sound of her father's violin. It had felt special. But this! This felt completely different and she felt like she was drowning in feeling.

As the song ended, the voice resonated once more through the room. "Excellent work today...I am...interested to see you progress."

"Um.. thank you... ah," she bit her lip, "...who... are you?"

"Your tutor," he replied. Although she couldn't see it, behind the mask he wore, a dark smile graced his features.

"My what?" She was not a dim girl, but her brain felt like cotton as she tried to process all of this. "Um... do you... have a body?"

"Be back here. Tomorrow. Following rehearsal." With that, he would be silent.

"Alright then," she said in a small voice to the empty space. She haltingly put the sheet music on the table and exited the rehearsal hall.

It was very late as she stepped outside in the cool Parisian air and shivered, more at the eeriness of the abandoned streets than the cold. Her footsteps were quick returning to her dorm.


	4. Chapter 4

**AN:** Thank you for all of the love! You're reviews mean so much! The ballet rehearsal was based off of Bourbonville's Conservatoire, a ballet designed to showcase what a late 19th century dance class would look like. It is thought to be extremely authentic. I strongly suggest youtubing "Vaganova Ballet Academy Conservatory (watch?v=v0ACTwmehu8). The part inspiring my Christine's dance begins around 7:00.

~o~

 _And the stars were shining, And the earth was scented. The gate of the garden creaked And a footstep grazed the sand... Fragrant, she entered And fell into my arms. ~Puccini, Tosca_

~o~

Chapter 4

~o~

The next day passed very similar to the last and then the next and the next as well. Before she knew it, a month had flown by. Faust was fully blocked and dress rehearsals were about to begin. Her strange lessons with the disembodied voice continued a couple of times a week and Christine was surprised to find it not only a staple in her regime but one that she couldn't help but look forward too. She knew it was strange - potentially dangerous - but Christine was not accustomed to the normal.

Her tutor on the other side of the walls, was absolutely thrilled with her progress. Things were moving at a lightning pace and he was certain that within the next season she could be heard by the entire world!

Unfortunately, that was all that was going well. The new production was just as stale as ever. The personalities of the singers were flaring up, ever the more volatile. On top it, the phantom's payments had been slow to come..if at all. Something would have to give soon.

The pins pinched under Christine's arms as she half waddled onto the stage for her call.

"Where are your wings, girl?!" the artistic director yelled at her.

She curtsied and responded demurely, "They are still being built, monsieur." She ran to her spot behind a two dimensional cloud, hoping the billowing white linen did not fall from her form.

"Utterly ridiculous!" the staging director growled. "This is the finale! You are an angel! The entire look demands these wings. How am I supposed to space them properly without it!"

The Opera Ghost listened to this with frustration. A lack of organization on the part of the owners was leading to this disaster - and the Opera Ghost was losing his patience.

The rehearsal would be further interrupted by one of the owners, who came in holding a letter; his expression furious. "Which one of you wrote this!?" He growled at the chorus, all assembled for the final moments.

She could only watch as more drama unfolded in front of her. She sighed and a pin pricked her side. This was going to be a long rehearsal.

"What foolishness is this!" the conductor snapped. The artistic director stomped up to Monsieur Andre and grabbed the letter testily. "What foolishness indeed!"

The artistic director read the letter, turning red as he did.

"...the opera was rewritten and presented to be provocative, intriguing, compelling. You have, however, managed to make a story so compelling that it has survived over two hundred years so dull and lifeless that I doubt it will survive this staging..."

"Good sir, please...a letter from a heckler, nothing more." Andre reassured him, which of course did nothing. "You know damned well who wrote this. That specter which haunts this place!" His tone was hushed, angry and paranoid. A collective gasp would run through the cast on stage.

Christine had only a faint idea of what was going on. She could only assume they were talking about the same "phantom" that Meg always went on about, although Christine had always assumed it was Meg's overactive and overly romantic imagination.

After ten minutes of arguing, the stage manager barked out to the cast, "That's all for today. Report back tomorrow after we sort this matter out." He then returned to the argument at hand.

Meg approached Christine, excitedly bouncing up and down in her pointe shoes. "It's the opera ghost, it has to be! He always wants what is best for this theatre, even when it causes such a stir," she said sagely.

"Do you really believe in ghosts, Meg?" Christine chided, even as goosebumps spread over her skin at the thought.

"It IS true! Joseph Bouquet saw the ghost himself! You can ask him yourself- he's always talking about it."

Christine rolled her eyes playfully and hugged her only friend. "Perhaps we shall, since we have the rest of the afternoon off!"

Meg squealed like a kid given candy and began pulling Christine by the hand through the corridors to the entrance of the first cellar.

Sure enough, a rugged aging man with thin, scraggly hair and jagged cheek bones poking through his sallow skin sat alone in the first cellar, sitting on a cart and slowly folding a length of rope.

"Joseph, Joseph!" Meg shouted in joy, "this is Christine! Tell her about the Phantom!"

The man moved slowly, languidly. His eyes were deep set and once they caught Christine's gaze, she seemed trapped, unable to look away. A thin-lipped smile grew slowly and Christine wished he hadn't smiled at all.

"The opera ghost loves to scare little ballet rats, so watch yourself down here," his smile grew, showing hideous teeth. "He is seen only when he wishes to be seen. Usually a darting shadow or a whisper from behind. But if you are unlucky enough to see his face! Girl, you better pray that you never do. For no one who has seen his face survived!"

 _Oh please. I take little pleasure in frightening others. Truly, I find it an exhausting exercise that I, personally, feel would not be necessary if those who worked in my theatre would follow my very simple wishes._

Those thoughts ran through the Opera Ghost's mind as he listened to the conversations from the shadows. He was enjoying his time training the girl. She showed such promise. And then there was the matter of her beauty. So stunning, so innocent. He would compose masterpieces for her, and her alone; as she alone was worthy for his work. He found himself staring, watching through the air vent that was a false front for a secret passage.

Then came the inevitable mood shift: desire, love even, swiftly turning to self loathing and hatred. Why did he ever think that a prodigy such as herself would sing for such a deformed monster as he! He turned away, withdrawing from his vantage point.

"He has the face of a rotting corpse! Barely more than skeleton! He has no nose at all and his eyes burn a fiery red," Bouquet continued, caught up in his dramatics,

"Monsieur, pardon me, but... If no one who has ever seen his face and lived, then how do you know what he looks like?" Christine asked innocently.

Bouquet stuttered to a stop and blinked at her. She smiled at him placatingly and pushed Meg toward the exit. "Good evening, monsieur Bouquet," she said kindly as she guided Meg to the surface.

The next morning, Christine was to report to the conservatoire for her daily ballet lesson. The Opera Ghost knew this, and he decided that he would attend. He normally made a practice of avoiding these rehearsals, as the bumbling about that was so common irritated his nerves. But that wasn't entirely the dancers fault. No, rather it was the boor-headed accompanist who plowed through the most delicate of passages with about as much sensitivity and grace as a barbarian sacking a village.

Behind the mirrored wall, he watched as the dancers filed in, pacing expectantly, waiting to see his young muse. For this moment, he let his heart long for her, unfettered by the doubt and guilt that would surely come next.

Her blue ribbon was tight around her stiff bodice. While not quite a corset, the materiel was boned and thick, keeping her rib cage contracted and her spine straight. It was her day to solo the practice routine and she was sweating. Her curls were unsuccessfully pinned into a low bun and her old toe shoes were ripped. Her long tutu was the only thing that shone with crisp newness- for they were provided by the conservatoire. She took her place at the barre in the middle of a line of girls, turning out her feet and placing her heels together in first position. She rounded her arm and rolled her shoulders, waiting for the music to begin.

The old piano was mostly in tune, even if you had to pluck the keys particularly hard. It came to life -barely- and the dancers began their warm ups, bending their knees and floating their arms like floating silk.

Christine's legs felt the fatigue of constant exercise and she willed them to relax and stretch. She loved to dance- she did! And she was very good at it. But she did not feel the joy and even ecstasy she felt when singing for her teacher.

The black ribbon around her neck itched and Christine got a quick stomp of the mistress's cane when she went to scratch at it.

Finally, after some floor exercises, it was time for Meg and her to dance alone. Every week a different set of dancers- four girls and four boys - had to perform the same routines and be harshly critiqued in the process.

Christine's sweat fell from a tendril of hair and hit the floor as she jumped and turned, balancing on her toes in an arabesque. She and Meg waltzed to each other and danced together for a moment before splitting off again and being joined by a couple of male dancers.

Behind the mirror, the Opera ghost frowned as he listened to the accompanist give a rather rushed rendition of _Pathetique_.

Erik sighed deeply as he listened to the opening chords. His gaze settled on the brunette. His muse. He watched her, his gaze rapt with attention. Her limbs extended so elegantly, accenting her perfect features: Her jaw. Her neck, her perfect bosom, waist; hips...

He shuddered in voyeuristic satisfaction before turning away in self-loathing. How dare he take such pleasure in watching this perfect muse...This woman...who haunted his dreams?

Christine spun and spun and spun. The world was a blur and she could quiet her mind for just a moment. She felt completely free and she basked in it.

She didn't mind the slight unevenness of the melody or the occasional sour chords coming from the accompanist - her eyes were closed and air whipped her hair against her neck.

She pirouetted one more time and extended into an arabesque en pointe. She held it, extended and taut, for a few seconds until she felt sometime give in the shoe supporting her. There was a loud rip and her shoe practically unraveled underneath her. The lack of support from the fabric caused more pressure to land on her big toe and she buckled, twisting her ankle on her way to the floor.

She didn't scream, but she bowed her head in pain, gripping her ankle. "Damn," she whispered inelegantly.

The music stopped and Christine looked up. The Madame did not look impressed. She took a look at Christine's shoes and sighed. "Mlle. Daae. You have not been replacing your slippers."

A brief tear escaped down her cheek but she did not allow any more to fall.

"Pardon me, Madame. I have not had the money to."

The ballet mistress clicked her tongue against her cheek. "That is no excuse for supplying necessities, mademoiselle. if you cannot afford the basics, perhaps it is time to find yourself a patron to help support you."

The girls around her tittered— it was often considered embarrassing to not have a wealthy man supporting a dancer. Being undesirable was a sure way to end your career in dance in Paris.

The Ghost saw this scene and frowned; it was true. Her shoes were falling was obvious that she needed a patron, for the social standing, as well as the income that it would provide.

A violent sting of jealousy ripped through his heart, settling as a vicious knot in his stomach. His muse, his student. He was not about to let her go the route of so many dancers. Such potential, only to end up the second mistress to some third-tier nobleman.

Needless to say, he had another letter that required his penning.

Christine sat the rest of the rehearsal, observing. Her ankle was not seriously injured, but without her slippers, she would not be allowed to practice.

She ignored the ball of embarrassment churning in her stomach. There was nothing to be done for it. Madame was not wrong- she was one of the last students in her level to gain a patron. It was difficult getting one when you had yet to perform on the stage; you had to go out of your way to become visible. At which, of course, Christine was horrid. And unwilling. She thought of her unearthly teacher. Would he abandon her if she became a slut?

She left the conservatoire deep in thought, returning home to change for the afternoon's rehearsal.

When she arrived, the elderly woman who served as land lady smiled to her as she walked in the front room.

"Mlle. Daae! You have a package. A boy dropped it off earlier for you, not but an hour ago. He said it was from an admirer of yours." With that, she offered Christine what appeared to be a shoe box wrapped in brown wrapping paper, tied shut with a string.

Christine stood there and opened the box to discover a new pair of slippers. The quality of them superior to what she was used to working with, exquisite in design and craftsmanship. They were selected by someone who knew what to look for.

Inside was a simple note in spiky red lettering.

 _"The brush,_ _your body. Your canvas,_ _the floor. Y_ _our music;_ _your heartbeat"_

Christine's heart beat painfully in her chest. How was this possible? Who could have sent this? An admirer, the woman said. As in... a patron? That was ridiculous. She had no exposure to have anyone at all known who she was, let alone someone with money. Someone must have seen her shoes break- it was the only possibility. But nobody who witnessed her shoe tearing would have had the funds to buy these shoes.

She looked closer and gasped quietly. These were Russian made. It was obvious with the Cyrillic inside and the sturdy block built into the front of the shoe. The Russians have begun to dominate the ballet world; their technique, their numbers, and their shoes with reinforced toe blocks to allow a dancer to suspend and balance en pointe for as long as she wanted!

She decided someone must have vetted for her. Maybe Madame Giry. She would know minor aristocrats and probably set her up with someone to protect her. She smiled with gratitude and vowed to work as hard as she could to make Giry and her hopefully new patron proud!


	5. Chapter 5

AN: to continue on Bourbonville's Le Conservatoire - a little more info: it was a two-act vaudeville ballet created in 1849 for the Royal Danish Ballet. The ballet's setting is a dance studio at the Conservatoire de Paris. In the 1820s, Bournonville studied at the Paris Conservatoire for his recreation. www. youtube watch?v=v0ACTwmehu8 or google a performance of it. Very cool glimpse into the past!

~o~

 _Put on the costume, and the face in white powder. The people pay, and laugh when they please. - Pagliacci, Ruggero Leoncaval_

~o~

-Chapter 5-

The afternoon rehearsal would go far more smoothly than the previous days. One of the co-owners, Andre, was watching the scene like a hawk. He was determined to have the opera finished by the end of today and as a result, everyone seemed to be on their best behavior.

Nearing the end of the rehearsal, a stage manager's assistant approached the cast. "All of you are dismissed, with the exception of the following supernumeraries. You are being given additional movements in act two, during Mephistopheles' first aria." He then began to go down the list of names with, of course, with Christine being one of them.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, we open in two weeks! Everyone, please, come prepared for tomorrow's full run!"

Christine groaned inwardly. Her excitement for being onstage had been replaced with sheer exhaustion. She stepped forward, waving goodbye to Meg on the way to center stage. She was wearing a simple, unbustled brown skirt today. Her white blouse was pleated but obviously well worn. Tendrils of hair escaped her low bun and she was flushed with the heat of the stage, creating a withered, frazzled, look. The last string of rehearsals had burnt her out.

The movement was not difficult, though it was a little macabre. The aria was about how Satan leads mankind into a dance, with different groups of actors being caught up in this strange, marionette-like movement. She would be able to learn it quickly, at any rate, and she was grateful for that. Perhaps with this added dance, she would be able to keep the interest of this strange admirer she seemed to have aquired.

She did not realize, of course, that her patron was indeed already there, watching her yet again as little more than a shadow hovering in the darkness of box five.

By the time they had finished the rehearsal, the Dancer's Foyer was full of dancers and their respective patrons; wealthy men, generally much older than their belles, all busy making dinner arrangements for the evening. As Christine tried to sneak through the room, she was stopped by another delivery boy.

The boy spoke loudly, his tone very presentational, as if he had been instructed very clearly by the one who hired him to do such.

"Mlle. Daae, for you!" he exclaimed, handing her another large box, similar in design as the last one.

A thrill ran up her spine and she squeezed her way into a corner and ripped open the box. Billowing fabric spilled out. A ballgown; a very beautiful, obviously very expensive one. On the top of it was a business card of the designer, clearly and obviously visible. " _F. Worth"_. The designer was Frederick Worth! A fashion designer who at that time had the same level of name recognition and elegance as Gucci or Prada did today.

Another simple card was on the inside.

"Y _ou taught me  
the most effective disguise  
for a treacherous beast  
is beauty"  
_  
The script was elegant. In slightly more simple script, penned by the same hand was:

" _For the Premier Masquerade Gala. I hope to meet you there."_

Eyes from behind the mirror burned an intense yellow... His heart hadn't pounded this hard in years. Never had he wanted a woman to accept his advances more than he did this beauty. To be honest, he had never _had_ the opportunity to extend gentlemanly advances to any woman before and, as a result, he found this to be rather trying territory.

The delivery boy gave a comically large bow and ran out of the room and Christine looked around at the startled faces and wide eyes and gave a small smile. She walked out of the room with her head high.

Eyes from behind the mirror burned an intense yellow... His heart hadn't pounded this hard in years. Never had he wanted a woman to accept his advances more than he did this beauty. To be honest, he had never _had_ the opportunity to extend gentlemanly advances to any woman before and, as a result, he found this to be rather trying territory.

Christine didn't even make it past the stone steps of the opera house before she had to sit and open the box again. Her hands shook as they tenderly removed the fabric from it.

The dress had more lace than not. It felt like woven gold beneath her fingertips and the bright red of the fabric reminded her of scattered rubies.

She rushed home, of course, and tried on the dress. Her room was dark and tiny and housed beds for three other young dancers, but thankfully she was alone for the moment and had the space to squeeze into the dress. Beneath the dress itself was everything else needed to complete the outfit. The black satin of the corset surprised her, for she had never seen undergarments in such a color! Without proper help, she could only tie the corset with minimal pull, so her waist obvious was wider than the dress allowed, but she could tell that when bound correctly, it would fit like a red, gorgeous glove. It was sensual. It reminded her of foreign lands she had never seen. It was perfect. It was a little frighteningly perfect.

She felt... beautiful did not describe it. Sensual. Exotic. She ran her hands down the sides of her body, tracing the curves that the dress accented so well. She flushed, for a moment, thinking of her teacher, incorporeal and without form, watching her from the corner of the room, drinking in her feminine features.

The shift she wore underneath everything (for she had certainly not gotten out of that and stood nude! Even for bathing, full nudity was indecent at the time!) did not fit well underneath and she knew without looking that the box would contain all she needed. She went to bed that night grinning and holding the dress to her chest like a holy object. That night she dreamt of lace and sensual voices.

The properties that were associated with the Palaise Garnier were well versed to the shadow that followed her. This included the dormitories that the dancers and other lowly artists stayed at. Although they did not have the same network of tunnels and cellars, there were more than one secret entrance associated with those venues, so the shadow followed Christine home.

And he watched her behind a false air vent that opened into a thin, narrow hallway, the musty air a common companion in these cramped quarters. He watched though he knew he shouldn't. His cat-like eyes stared at her body; drinking in sights that were forbidden to him. He was drunk with her, intoxicated with her beauty. Every curve she revealed, every inch of flesh that was bare. Then there was the corset; the black satin against her pale skin. It was simply too much for him to handle, and he had to work to calm his breathing. The dress was stunning on her; magnificent. She would have suitors calling for her once they noticed her. This was good, as it meant publicity, if a personal nuisance. Thankfully, her patron would see that she was quite well cared for.

He turned his gaze away as a wave of loathing came crashing in on him. She didn't even know his name, and if she did, she would abhor the sigh of him.

When The Opera Ghost returned to his lair in the cellars, he was full of guilt and shame for what he had done. Though she was not nude, it was indecent; it was improper. He did his best to try and focus on his music, but peace eluded him. He tried to think of music, and her form haunted his every thought. It was inescapable, and he felt a desperate surge of anxiety as he rose from his desk.

He crossed towards a chest near his bed; removing the formal tuxedo jacket from his body. The suspenders were cast down about his hips, the bowtie soon laying discarded on the floor. His shirt was the next to be removed. His motions were violent, sending the metal studs that served as buttons clattering to the floor.

For a man who was significantly older than his muse, he was in excellent shape; his time as an assassin requiring physical prowess as well as mental aptitude. So, his physique was strong and well muscled; the suits that he so often wore being filled out quite nicely by it, not that any female had had cause to inform him of that.

Shirtless, he reached for the chest and opened it, withdrawing what looked to be an angry leather flogger. He left the mask on as he began to act in a series of vicious strikes against his back. How dare he see her like that, even think of her like that? He was nothing; no, worse than nothing! A filthy, perverted cancer, not worthy of her love, let alone of her presence.

The lashes he gave himself were relentless and vicious, soon leaving angry welts, some of them drawing blood. He did not count as his self hatred consumed him and soon his entire body was numb. When he was done, the flogger would fall to the floor as he collapsed in bed, bits of blood and flesh dripping from both the implement of torment and the tormentor.

The next day Christine had her scheduled lesson with her teacher. When the evening's rehearsal ended, she lingered behind, then slipped her way into their appointed practice room.

As she entered, the sound of piano keys gently being played alerted her to his presence. He was here, awaiting her.

"You have been added to the act two dances. This is wonderful progress. You are being noticed, Christine," the velvet voice caressed her ears.

She still jumped as she heard his voice, even though she expected it. But a wide smile followed it immediately and Christine beamed.

"Thank you, teacher! I don't know what I've done to impress others, but it is very exciting!"

"You have been doing very well. Adapting to what has been given to you, working well with others. Your dance. It is progressing as well? I've noticed that your...pointe work has greatly improved," He commented.

She blinked. "You... you've seen me dance? You've been at the conservatoire?"

"I am everywhere," the voice replied simply. "I have been eager to see you progress, and you are excelling wonderfully. Tell me, is the Faust aria memorized yet, as I asked you?"

She blushed at the compliment and bowed her head, allowing a few tendrils of hair to fall into her face. "Yes, teacher, I have memorized it."

"Good. Now then. Let us warm up."

At that, he would take her through a series of vocalizations, all becoming quite familiar to her by now, as they were to be done daily. All the while, she'd hear his voice, shaping and guiding her instrument with each instruction. By the time they were done he'd begin the accompaniment of the aria, letting her start.

It was at this moment that he heard a sound coming down the stairs, towards the practice room. Behind the wall, The Opera Ghost smiled.

She was still breaking her habit of stopping and apologizing when making a mistake, and yet she managed to only do so twice as she was nearing the apex of the aria. She was sweating both from effort and the emotion it took to complete the song.

The aria concluded and a knock on the door immediately followed.

"Answer it, and say nothing of me!" Her tutor instructed, his hypnotic voice firm.

"Wha-" She looked around, confused, still dazed from the magic of the song. The knock sounded once more and Christine rushed to answer it.

When she answered, she was met with Monsieur Andre's eager face. "Mlle. Daaé! Was that you singing just now?" he asked, surprised by who he saw yet clearly pleased with what he had heard.

The Opera Ghost smiled from his vantage point, his gaze a fiery, focused expression, and if guiding this exchange to her favor by sheer force of will.

"Well.. I mean... ah..." Christine's mouth hung open and she found she could not answer.

"Please, my dear; could you sing more? I didn't hear a piano playing with you. Allow me." Andre sat down at the piano, playing the opening chords of the piece.

When the Phantom whispered, it was for her ears, only. "Sing for him."

"Uh...ah... of course, Monsieur," she squeaked. She allowed him to play the introduction- so bare and hollow compared to the way that her teacher played!- and she began singing in a small, hesitant voice.

In her head she would hear her tutor. "More. Give him more. Release your breath...Yes...like that," he purred as he listened to her, guiding her through the piece.

She slowly gained confidence and finally allowed her voice to shine through. By the end of the number, she had forgotten who was playing and was once more lost in the song.

When the final chords ended, monsieur Andre was smiling broadly. "And to think you've been hiding right under our noses... Tell me, are you in the chorus?" he inquired, "And I must know who you have been studying with."

A sharp rebuttal would ring in her mind. "Do not tell him of me!"

"I..." Her throat closed on her again. She shook her head then mumbled to the floor, "No, sir, I am studying ballet here and I am a supernumerary for Faust."

"You are a spear carrier? With that voice?" He stood up, shocked. "Please, I must have you sing for the chorus master - at once! Meet me at my office. Tomorrow. Eleven in the morning, sharp." His grin was infectious and Christine found herself mirroring it.

"Uh...Of course sir!" She managed a wobbly curtsy to the man.

"Then it's settled. I will see you then!" He said, turning to depart, a spring in his step. With that...she would find herself alone, her spectral teacher silent.

She did not say anything; she had nothing to say. She could barely think.

"T-teacher?" She finally asked with hesitation.

Cutting the silence, she'd hear his voice one last time. "I'm proud of you, Christine. Tomorrow you will sing for them. This will be a turning point in your career. Now, go, we are done for the day," he said, wanting to preserve her voice for tomorrow.

After Christine left the theatre, floating above the cobblestone street, the rest of the evening passed slowly for the ghost, ruminating over his brilliant little soprano. How he desired to see her, speak to her; meet her face to face. Yet he could not do that- lest he risk losing everything that he had worked for with her.


	6. Chapter 6

**AN:** Thank you so much for the positive feedback and reviews! We're having a blast! Young artist programs are a common thing today for singers in the process of building their careers. I have not found proof that such a thing existed in the late Victorian era, but it is very likely something like this existed, even if it was called something different.

~o~

 _It is she, the goddess who comes to unite us this day! Yes, let us share the same fate, let us be united until death! -_ _Les pêcheurs de perles_ _, Bizet_

~o~

Chapter 6

Christine's blue dress was simple but respectable. It was the only nice dress she owned, so she wore it only on the most special of occasions to keep it from becoming too thread-bare. The neckline was fashionably low, but the sleeves covered her arms to the wrists. She had Meg tighten her corset so she looked presentable. Her small brown hat, perched high on her head was an obvious outcast to her attempt at class, but she owned no others.

The clock chimed eleven and Christine took a deep breath before knocking lightly at the office door.

It was opened by Monsieur Andre. "Ah, Mlle. Daaé; please come in. We are all thrilled to hear you!" he crooned, leading her into the room. Seated there was Monsieur Ferman, the other owner, as well as a short, older man whom she recognized as the chorus master.

"I am hoping, Mlle. Daaé that you can give my esteemed colleagues a taste of what we were graced with last night. I have been absolutely abuzz with excitement for them to hear you!"

Her teacher was nowhere to be seen, as usual, yet the shadow was there, watching, from just behind the walls. When he spoke, it was in only her ears.

"Relax your abdominals, let the corset do the work, not you."

"Tongue forward...yes, like that...let yourself be able to truly breathe." He murmured as the men talked, preparing for her to sing. He knew that this was just casual banter, but for a singer; these moments before the piece began was utterly critical.

Christine should have practiced in the corset. _Damn_ , she thought. Taking in a deep breath of air, she tested her lungs. Pushing her abdominals against the tight fabric did make controlling the breath a bit easier, but her lungs could not fully expand. She did not know how the beautiful soloists did it on stage.

Andre asked her, "The Jewel Song? Yes?"

Christine nodded tensely. Andre smiled and nodded to the accompanist in the corner. The man began the lilting, bright introduction and Christine took a deep breath again - only to be hindered yet again by the corset. As a result, her phrases were a little off, the lines interrupted with occasional quick inhales, but Christine strove to not let that interfere with the rest of the song. She put her soul into it, closing her eyes and thinking only of her tutor, pretending he was the only one with her. Her voice soared and she knew it. When she finished the last note, she kept her eyes closed and listened to the silence of the room. No one was saying anything. She began to worry and peaked through one eyelid.

Those assembled were sitting with eyes wide, shocked by what they had heard.

"Mlle. Daaé, have you ever considered auditioning for a principle role with the opera?" the chorus master spoke, maintaining a dignified air despite the excitement that was humming in the room.

"I...um... I don't have much experience... sir."

The Chorus Master chuckled at her and spread his hands. "You have some breathing issues that I can resolve within months! Other than that, I hear near perfection!"

Christine looked at each man in the room. She did not know what to say. What would her teacher tell her? Surely he would have intervened if he felt that she was not ready for this... ...right?

 _Oh please. If she had been allowed to sing without that vice about her waste, she would be fine. Utterly ridiculous,_ the Ghost thought as he listened to the conversation. Still, perfection. He smiled, beaming with pride as he watched her.

"We'd like you to sing for a small evening gathering of some patrons. This aria...what else do you know?" The chorus master asked curiously.

What else? Christine panicked and began stammering unintelligibly. She stopped, took a deep breath and tried again. "I know a few country songs, sir. That is it." Her cheeks were on fire.

He frowned slightly but then nodded. "Of course. You are young. If I gave you a list of arias to learn, could you do so as soon as possible?" He asked, hopeful.

She nodded with eagerness. "Oh course, sir!"

"Good then. It is settled. We will have you sing as a young artist at this weekend's reception."

It was common in this time for opera companies to run multiple productions in repertoire. Though most of the focus and attention was being pointed toward the new production of Faust, the Palaise Garnier was offering a production of Carmen this weekend. Following one of the performances, there was to be a small reception where the opera would be discussed and a young artist would sing. To go from being seen solely as a supernumerary to that of a young budding artist was an astronomical leap.

The rest of the day, Christine was walking on clouds. She had a long lunch at the cafe across the street - it cost her dearly, but with her new patron and an opportunity to be heard by the top investors in the city, she felt she deserved a fresh pastry.

When rehearsals for Faust began, she was still floating and to others looked even more distracted than usual.

Today was a full run; the first beginning of technical rehearsals. As a result, everyone was exhausted; tempers were flaring and patience was thin.

Christine pantomimed, she walked the stage, she reacted. She was in the moment and enjoyed connecting to the music and help bring the scene alive.

The devil's aria was next and she waltzed a fast, daring and unconventional dance to his ministrations. She felt the pull of Mephisto, urging her body to move. It was magical. The stage was finally alive!

The Opera Ghost watched her, appearing as little more than a shadow coming from box five. He could feel the life she had on stage now. He found it hard to pull his focus from her. This was the best he had seen her perform, and in a technical rehearsal no less. He also noticed the gaze of the chorus master and several other important directors lingering on her more than they had before. She finally existed to them, and he was excited to see her career progress.

She was exhausted by the time she hooked her angel wings onto her body for the final scene. The run had had minimal stops and she realized just how much stamina was involved! Breathless, she ran onto the stage with the other angels and posed, lifting graceful hands toward where Marguerite would fly down.

The run ended shortly following that and was hailed a successful rehearsal by everyone involved. Christine was changing out of her costume when Meg approached her, giddy with excitement.

"Christine, some of us have been invited to a cafe this evening, and you simply _must_ come with!" she urged, the dancers all sharing the similar excitement that only a successful run could generate.

Christine hesitated. She did not generally socialize and she had no money to pay for the cafe. She bit her lip and replied, "Perhaps. Thank you for the invite. " She smiled at Meg and went to the sink to wash off her thick stage makeup.

In the shadows, the Opera Ghost was torn. For one, he desired for her to enjoy herself. After all, she had earned it. Things were finally beginning to fall in place for her. On the contrary, a jealous streak coursed through him. Going out would mean that she would likely be approached by young men, suitors even, and he would not tolerate that...Not with her.

As he watched the young woman wash her face, The Ghost made a decision. He decided to see what she would do. Was it playing with fire? Yes. Was it manipulative, perhaps...Yet when she returned to the chorus dressing room, she found a white envelope with her name on it. Asking the other girls about it yielded only shrugs.

Open, the envelope revealed five hundred Francs, as well as a simple note saying that a rising star should not have to live in squalor.

Like her guardian angel, this admirer - for she recognized the handwriting - was fulfilling all of her wishes and needs. How could he possibly know!?

 _Easy_ , Christine thought to herself, _all ballet rats struggled with funds on their own_. It would be odd if she weren't! She deliberated, clutching the envelope to her chest. She had no engagement tonight and her lesson with her teacher was tomorrow evening. Would he approve? She vowed that if she did go out, she would take heed and protect her voice; no shouting or over imbibing. She thought next of her mysterious admirer. He had already shown his wealth and she desperately needed to stay in his favor. Perhaps he would be there tonight? Would he expect her to socialize? Most patrons would, wanting their property to be seen and awed over.

She felt pulled in two directions. She worried over it until Meg returned with a question in her eyes. The hopeful expression on her friend's face did her in. She smiled and accepted the invitation. "Only one hour, though, Meg!"

She wore her blue dress again- as there was really nothing else appropriate. She pinned her hair in a fashionable twist with tendrils falling down her neck. Her ugly brown hat perched high on her head, tilted to at least look intentional. Her brown gloves were a bit threadbare, but few would probably notice in the dim light of the cafe.

She walked the three blocks to the rowdy cafe and breathed deeply, nervously watching the lively crowd spilling out of the establishment. She would have turned on her heels right then and walked away if Meg - in a bright yellow dress that one could see for miles - had not seen her at that moment and called to her.

The thin dancer was standing with two other girls from the opera, who were entertaining well-dressed gentlemen callers. This was not the Dancer's Foyer of the Palais Garnier, and the men were not solely from Paris' upper crust. They all welcomes Christine over, Meg giving her a hug. "Christine! I'm so happy you decided to join us!" she announced, passing Christine a glass of low quality champagne.

"Allow me to introduce you to a gentleman who has made our acquaintance this evening. The Vicomte Raoul de Chagny. Raoul, this is my dearest friend, Christine Daae," Meg gushed excitedly, shoving Christine rather obviously toward a tall, handsome man in dress that was borderline too formal for the cafe. "Mlle. Daaé. A pleasure to make your acquaintance," he offered, his tone refined; his air elegant. He extended a hand to take hers, kissing the back of her hand.

The Opera Ghost's heart burned. An empty attic across the street was his perch for the evening. A pair of opera glasses through a window gave him the view inside the cafe window that he desired. He found himself clutching at the glasses too tightly, his breath going shallow. He was a fool to let her out of his grasp like that. Now this young suitor was going to snatch his nightingale from him.

Christine held the glass awkwardly but attempted to be polite. "De Chagny?" she asked the man in front of her. "I spent some time in my childhood in Chagny. It is a beautiful country."

"It is, isn't it? Did I know you?" He asked curiously, narrowing his gaze, trying to recall her appearance but coming up short. "Tis no matter. Still, I have heard that you are quite the rising star around the Palaise Garnier."

Christine blushed prettily at the compliment and was grateful at his change of topic. She did indeed remember him. As a young boy, he was vivacious and strong...and spoiled and cantankerous. Her father often played his violin for the Comte and his family and she remembered singing along a few times. She was glad he didn't remember her or his prior infatuation with her. Part of the reason she and her father left for Paris was due to his attentions.

Meg must have seen her reluctance and pulled her away to introduce her to others. The women stared pointedly at her worn hat and gloves and the plainness of her dress, but the men hung on her every word with rapt attention. Someone ordered appetizers for the long tables of opera patrons and Christine enjoyed a full stomach for the first time in ages.

She perhaps drank a bit more champagne than necessary, but all of the men kept making sure her glass was full, so she really could not be blamed. Her tolerance was strong, with her younger years beating barflys in drinking games for coins- she could drink Brannvin like water - but it had been years and her body had not been as well cared for as back then.

The shadow across the street watched her with rapt attention. Dear god, she could have them eating out of her hand if she wished. She was so unaware of her power; she could have nearly any patron she wanted if she would gain the self-awareness required to manipulate them.

Still, she drank a bit too heavily than he was comfortable with. This would reflect in her voice tomorrow, he was sure of it. He frowned and observed her more closely. He noted how the Vicomte continued to look at her with bold lecherousness in his eyes.

Christine sat and listened to the simple band and nodded occasionally toward whomever was talking at her at the moment. The room got louder and rowdier around her. A genuine smile did cross her lips as the can can dancers entered and interacted with the crowd. They were funny and witty and kept the attention off of Christine.

The men clapped and cheered for the dancers, but the Vicomte continued to watch Christine. There came a point where everyone was focusing on the dancers and he tried to get her attention repeatedly, unsuccessfully. He finally, in an act of frustration, turned her a little firmly by the shoulder.

"You are a hard woman to talk to, you know," he said, his smile a bit cynical.

She reared back at the manhandling. "My apologies, monsieur." She didn't sound particularly sorry. "There is a lot of stimuli tonight and I don't get out of the conservatoire much."

"Perhaps you wouuld like to retire to a place a bit more quiet, then?" His breath reeked of drink.

She turned her head to the side at the breath hitting her face. Wiggling out of his grasp, she politely declined.

Raoul let her pull away. "Very well then...Enjoy the company here," he said, dejectedly. He was sulking in a rather childish manner by her rejection, like a spoiled brat used to getting what he wished. Exactly how Christine remembered.

Christine thought she had had enough enjoyment for one night. She attempted to approach Meg, but her friend was flooded with theatre employees, laughing and dancing. Christine would feel horrible to pull Meg away, so she paid for her meal and drinks (even though they were meant to be gifted to her) and quietly slipped out of the front door.

Her walk would seem to be quiet enough, yet she couldn't help but feel that she was being followed.

The night's temperature had dropped significantly and Christine crossed her arms firmly over her chest to attempt to retain some body heat. Her boots were loud and quick on the pavement, preventing her from hearing anyone approach.

She felt a shadow loom behind her. Someone was approaching rapidly. Though in the darkness she wouldn't be able to get a good look, it wouldn't be until she felt a hand on her shoulder that she turned and realized who it was.

"Mlle. Daaé. You must let me escort you home. It isn't safe for a woman like you to be alone. Come." It was the Vicomte, as insistent and forceful as ever.

She swallowed her heart which had raised suddenly into her throat and sagged a bit. "Monsieur, you startled me. I truly am only a block or two away. There is no need."

"No truly. I insist," he said, forcing her a bit by the arm.

It was in that moment when an ethereal voice filled the street, seeming to come from inside both of their minds; both of them hearing the same spectral voice.

"Let her go. Now," it boomed. She recognized the ethereal voice. From the end of the street she would see a tall, dark, figure emerge from a door that had opened and shut behind him.

Her eyes were wide and her body did not obey her desire to pull away from the Vicomte and run.

Raoul's hand tentatively loosened on her arm.

"Step away from her. Now," the voice commanded and Raoul obeyed immediately, as if he was compelled in some way.

"Please, Raoul," Christine whispered, frightened not of the voice, but of the voice's assumptions of her.

Raoul stepped back, clearly shaken by what had transpired. "You..just...get gome safely now," he stammered before quickly turning and half-running into the night.

When she turned back to face the doorway, whoever had been standing there was gone.

"T...teacher?"

"I am here...child." The voice replied, trembling. He wanted so badly to reveal himself to her, so much that it caused him great agony.

"Thank you, teacher," she whispered and hurried back to her dormitory.


	7. Chapter 7

_Her case may any day Be yours, my dear or mine. Let her make her hay while the sun doth shine. Let us compromise, our hearts are not of leather. Let us shut our eyes and talk about the weather. - Pirates of Penzance, Gilbert and Sullivan_

~o~

Chapter 7

~o~

The day after visiting the cafe, Christine was impatient for her evening lesson. She had heard nothing from her teacher, which Christine worried was a sign of displeasure.

That night, she approached the rehearsal hall with hesitance, not sure what mood she would find on the other side.

Exhaling, she pushed opened the door and was greeted by a soft piano piece that was being played by her spectral teacher. His ethereal voice filled her mind.

"I trust you made it home safely?" There was a hard edge in his voice.

She swallowed her nerves. "I... I am sorry for putting you in that position. Please- thank you for helping me."

"I will always be there when you are in need, Christine," he replied, his voice low, almost solemn. "But, you will do well to not test my patience, my muse. Music will not take half-hearted devotees. You must commit yourself fully to your work."

She nodded, chastised, and gave a small curtsy if respect.

"Now, let us begin," he added curtly before playing the opening arpeggios to the first of their regular warmups. He would take her through several exercises, pausing to speak to her as she rested from the previous exercise.

"How do you feel your career is going?" he asked, his tone that of a caring teacher, learning more about his student.

"It's been a bit of a whirlwind, to be honest," she admitted. One day I'm stepping on stage for the first time as a ballet rat- the next I'm singing arias!"

He nodded. "Things are progressing fantastically on the technical side of things. How do you feel things are for the social and, dare I say, personal side?" He was referring of course to her patronage...As if he didn't know exactly what was transpiring.

Her eyes widened and darted around the room, searching for an answer. "I... suppose all is well. You've obviously seen how last night went." Christine smiled without humor. "I was invited for the first time. I thought it would be fun."

"It did go well. You showed great promise, though I feel the Vicomte took his familiarity with you a bit too far." He paused, asking "Is that all that is occuring in your life?"

She wracked her brain, unable to figure out the right choice. She did not know if knowledge of a suitor would scare her teacher away. Or anger him. But she couldn't afford to turn the generous donor down. She shrugged noncommittally, looking down uncomfortably.

"Well?" he asked, his tone insistent and impatient. Behind the glass mirror where he lingered, the Ghost couldn't help but smirk. It was amusing, if a bit perverse, to toy with her a bit, especially after the danger she put herself in last night.

"That is all, Monsieur," she answered in a small voice.

"Very well then...Let us continue." He couldn't let on much, but it troubled him that she would hide something so serious from him. He would have to devise a solution to this.

Christine left the lesson feeling awful and spent the rest of the evening tossing and turning, wracked with guilt.

_  
The following day was filled almost entirely by dance, but an energetic anticipation staved off any physical fatigue. Tonight would be the final rehearsal for Faust and Christine felt the excitement from stepping onto the stage for the first time come rushing back into her body.

And as tonight was the final dress, it was a wonderful time for her patron and secret admirer to show his affection for her. She arrived to the Dancer's Foyer before the run and one of the page boys who was regularly sent to deliver gifts to the girls approached her with a small box.

She returned to the chorus dressing room to open it, finding a new pair of white gloves, almost similar to the pair she had worn last night; only fresh and elegant. The note with it was simple.

" _May these keep your hands warm against the autumn chill in absence of mine."_

She almost cried, but the sound of other girls approaching allowed her to stuff her emotions back into the box along with the gloves. She buried the box into her coat and hurried to get into costume and make up.

The dress would be rather rocky, as far as runs went. It was obvious that the new production would be successful, but there were still clearly some jitters that were flaring up and needed to be worked out. Still, the mood was positive was when the rehearsal ended and the stage manager called to them on the stage, going over last minute announcements.

"Remember, finery and masks are mandatory for the gala tomorrow night," he reminded those from the cast who were attending.

Christine ambled off to return her angel wings to the properties master when she heard her teacher in her head.

"Are you attending the ball, my child?" He asked, for her ears only.

She jumped, as she always did. "Oh! I ...it's mandatory, teacher."

"Good. You have a dress and mask, then?"

She froze, thinking she should reveal the truth. But all her strength failed her, so she simply nodded.

"I trust then that you will enjoy yourself, and responsibly keep your progress as a singer in the front of your mind the entire time." His voice had an instructive edge to it.

She ducked her head, flushing. "Of course, teacher!" she whispered with reverence.

When she returned to her dressing room, she would find yet another box for her. Inside rested an elegant red mask of the same style as her dress; a perfect compliment.

A thrill of exhilaration ran through Christine. Her secret admirer had implied that he would be at the masquerade. She indulged in some childish fantasies that some handsome prince would come to whisk her away. She went to bed smiling, an event that startled her roommates as it was such a rare occurrence.


	8. Chapter 8

AN: Thanks for da reviews! The music used to inspire the Masquarade dance scene is Beethoven's 2nd movement of his 7th symphony. The allegretto. One of my favs. The four-count dance step they perform is based off of the foxtrot, originated in **1914** by Vaudeville actor Harry Fox. But it is a style style I can see Erik creating and letting spread slowly across the world, completely uninterested in the truth of its origin. So while not strictly historically accurate, it technically COULD have happened.

~o~

 _Ah! Be carefree - for wine and song with laughter, embellish the night. The new day breaking will find us still in this happy paradise. - La Traviata, Verdi_

~o~

Chapter 8

The next morning had no rehearsal as the Palais Garnier was devoted to preparing for the masquerade ball. Decorations were put up, the entire grand hall looking somehow even more elegant than its normal impressive state. The dormitories, of course, were just as frantic, filled with bustling girls all preparing for the gala. The collective hope high for all of them this evening.

Christine's hair was particularly wild today, a fact that irked Christine to no end. The more important the event, the more unruly and embarrassing her curls would get. Meg did her best with helping her tame it, but they could only trap so much hair into the fashionable updo. As it was a costume ball, they could get away with half of her hair falling down to her her elbows.

The dress was every bit as beautiful as she last remembered. Properly corseted, the dress clung to her skin and fell in attractive red waves of bunched fabric. Red gloves, red shoes, red fan. She found some red theatre jewels and pinned them into her hair. She applied just the lightest amount of theatre makeup, rouging her cheeks to give them color and reddening her lips in a way that still looked natural and flushed.

When the conservatory girls arrived at the ball, the grand hall was already filled with masked men and women, trying to impress each other with their finery. Enemies and friends alike would convalesce and try to outdo one another with outrageous (or outrageously expensive) costumes.

Truth be told, The Opera Ghost loved nights like this and would be taking the preparation seriously for this evening. People were visiting his theatre and he wanted everything to be perfect. That afternoon, the rumors had already started among the workers that the Ghost was extra busy today-tampering with nearly everything, making the theatre just how he wanted it.

Christine was impressed with the gala - everything was brilliant and sparkling and perfect, like a fairytale. The music and ambiance were carefully curated, fitting her tastes exactly. It almost seemed as if the hall was decorated just for her, so fitting were they to her costume.

A waiter flew by, practically making a champagne flute magically appear in her hands. She was grateful and finished the drink within minutes, looking for another immediately after to calm her nerves.

Below, the shadow fixed his cufflinks. The Opera Ghost had worked hard to make this gala absolute perfection, so of course he would attend the affair himself!

His figure emerged from the shadows fully dressed, using the passageway in box five to make his entrance. He was dressed elegantly, wearing an ornate costume of red velvet. It was as elegant as it was opulent, fitting his form perfectly, creating a handsome silhouette. Shadowed by a swooping wide brim hat, the mask he wore was not the traditional skull as often seen in Red Death costumes, but was a polished white half mask that revealed part of a handsomely masculine face. The side of his face which was left uncovered revealed sharp angles and plump lips. His eyes glowed an unusual gold as they swept the crowd. With bodies instinctively moving out of his way, he descended the grand staircase, looking for his muse.

Christine felt lost. She had found Meg and allowed herself to be pulled from one group of patrons to another, leaving her dizzy and overwhelmed. She was asked to dance by multiple men, but after spending a waltz with them, she could tell they were not her secret patron and shyly scooted back to Meg.

He saw her standing there; those wide, doe like eyes behind her mask, searching the room with unease. A dance was ending, a new one sure to begin. He positioned himself so she would be able to see his red visage descending the stairs. When he was certain she had seen him, he would make his way towards her; a stirring in his heart, a tightness of nerves in his stomach. So often he had been behind walls, peering through mirrors. Not anymore. Not tonight.

Christine had lost Meg. She began to panic a bit, not knowing what nor how to act without her fearless friend to hide behind. Grabbing another champagne flute from a passing waiter, she downed the contents as discreetly as possible.

A soulful, almost mourning piece of music began playing by the small orchestra nestled in the corner. She did not recognize the piece, but the dancers in the middle of the floor seemed familiar with it.

A man had approached her and shoved another glass of alcohol into her hand, which she gratefully accepted, although uninterested in the man himself with the plain suit and the plain domino mask. Blacks, whites, silvers and golds blurred around her as she scanned the room for some sign that her admirer would be there.

But he did not show himself.

It was right as the music crescendoed and right as Christine made up her mind to sneak out the back to return home to her solitude that the dancing couples parted in just a way to reveal a tall figure across the room regally traveling down the grand staircase. He was draped in the finest of red cloth, the hue matching hers completely.

Christine watch him approach like a frozen deer. The music grew as he began to walk slowly and intentionally across the dance floor. The dancers naturally gave way to him, parting like the red seas.

He stopped in front of her - A hair's breadth too close to be expected for a stranger. The music drizzled softly around her, a calm breeze.

The man in front of her took Christine's breath away.

Behind the mask, the Ghost's eyes sparkled like amber. Beethoven's 7th. A perennial favorite of his. Allegretto. It felt like a dance, or a dirge; sometimes both. Oddly, it was marked Allegretto; a little lively. Set in the key of A minor, he couldn't help the strings with their pizzicato and staccato notes encouraging a strange courtship between the woman in red who was his counterpart, his muse; his obsession.

Finally, their eyes met and for that moment, they were the only beings in this world.

The music swelled and crescendoed around them, intensity building as he stepped closer to her. Each step felt like an eternity, and that eternity comprised solely of her. He saw her eyes behind the mask, those eyes which were so beautiful, so doe like, wide with wonder and life.

"Mlle. Daae, is it not?" he asked in a smooth voice, offering her his hand. Behind the mask, she could tell that he was older than her, though he wore his age with dignity and grace, capable and refined.

She felt lightheaded, staring into his depthless yellow eyes. She nodded softly and passed her empty champagne flute to the closest gentleman without even glancing away from the man in front of her.

The music turned again, shifting to be a lilting and graceful variation on the theme. After what seemed a lifetime of waiting, he extended his hand.

"Honor me with this dance?"

Christine could swear that the voice was familiar, yet for the life of her, she could not place it. It was lilting just enough to sound foreign, yet the accent was unidentifiable.

She felt her breath rapidly pushing against her corset, raising her cleavage to push pleasantly from her dress. She slowly lifted her hand and placed her crimson-gloved fingers into his palm. He kissed her hand in a slow, languid, and utterly sensual manner. She nodded, breathless, and let him guide her onto the floor, sweeping her into a strange four-count waltz. Christine had never seen anything like it, but his skill in leading her allowed her to follow his steps with ease. She wanted to ask what this dance was, but found she couldn't speak at all.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Meg with her mouth wide open and next to her, the persistent Viscount clenching his fists. She even saw Madame Giry with her pallid face whiter than usual. But Christine retained none of this as her attention could not be diverted from this man's gaze.

"You are beautiful."

Oh, his voice was velvet! Like nothing she had ever heard before. As ethereal as her teachers but yet so different. Sensual. Personal.

She allowed him to spin her gracefully before pulling her in tight with one hand pressing against the others over their heads, allowing them to get even closer. They turned slowly and she once again attempted to speak but could only manage biting her lip.

Yellow eyes lowered to watch Christine worrying her lip. His mind raced as he drank in her beauty. This woman was everything he could imagine a woman to be; and the dance felt like sin made human. For someone as debased and wretched as he to dance with an angel such as her; well, it was a Faustian deal to be sure.

His lips twitched into a half smile at that thought.

Middance, he finally spoke: "Miss Daae; it is finally good to make your acquaintance."

She nearly choked when he offered one of the most beautiful smiles she had ever seen. This man was achingly gorgeous, at least the part bare to the world.

She was lost.

A lifetime could have passed, but Christine was beyond time. When he spoke again, she allowed the dance to slow until she was standing still.

"It is you, isn't it?" She asked softly. "You've been sending me gifts."

He nodded. "It is. I trust they have not been too forward? The dress, it was a bold first step, I know," he murmured, almost apologetically.

"But how do you know me at all? I have never been on the stage at all!" Christine asked.

"You've been around the Palais for nearly a year. Studying, yes?" he asked, guiding her off the stage, near the wall to an empty pair of seats."I've seen you, admired your work and dedication."

Her eyebrows scrunched together. "You are a patron of the opera. You...watch the school as well... most only concern themselves with the productions." She paused, realizing that she was coming across rather accusatory. "Pardon me, Monsieur. I am merely...surprised to have someone take notice of me. I have little experience in... anything," she laughed self-deprecatingly.

He watched her and smiled slightly. "You've been blossoming since you came here. Your name is on the lips of everyone in this room," he said with a gentle smile, leaning against the table. "I have heard you are now a young artist in the opera company. Is that true?"

God. She had trouble even thinking with his predatory eyes on her. She swallowed and licked her lips before responding, "I have been afforded a supranumerary role in Faust. My first time stepping onto this grand stage!" she blushed and ducked her head, "Hardly anything to brag about, but being on stage! My God!" She moaned quite unladylike. Catching herself, she covered her mouth with her hand, mortified.

"I have been very liberal with you tonight. I must apologize," she gushed, " I must seem very uncouth and with all that you have done for me... Please, let me start again," She looked up to meet his eyes again with a pleading look. She tensed, ready to bolt.

With that he squeezed her hand a bit more firmly. "Stay. Relax. You are fine."

She laughed lightly. "Of course. I am nervous, which is causing my tongue to talk on its own...Thank you... for the presents. It actually kept me from having to leave the conservatoire."

His gaze narrowed sharply. "Truly? I would have believed those gifts would be in line with a list of admirers. Why would you have had to leave?"

At that his gaze would catch the gaze of a glaring viscount, watching from across the dance floor.

The Vicomte would take that gaze as a challenge and began walking toward them.

Christine however saw none of this. "Hardly, monsieur. I am but a ballet rat with... " Oh dear, she was talking of such things! "- little experience with patrons..." God, her stomach was plummeting to the darkest of the Opera's basements.

Raoul was only steps away, about to intercede. "If you will excuse me," he announced grandly.

The man in red stood, his broad cloak swooping into a red flourish behind him. "Vicomte De Chagny. May I assist you?"

Raoul drew himself up, standing to attention, "Monsieur, Good evening. I wish to address the Lady Daae."

"By all means, she is yours.," he replied, swooping to the side. His cape seemed to shimmer for a second. When they would look for him, he would seem to have disappeared completely, only to reappear a moment later leaning against a pillar behind Raoul, his gaze locked on Christine.

She was dazed; drunk on her admirer's charm. Suddenly, there was a hand in front of her. She accepted it and let herself be dragged onto the dance floor again.

The scent was different. The warmth of the gloved hand was new and the smell of the breath was more acidic. She looked up into brown, assertive eyes and was disappointed.

The Opera Ghost watched as the Vicomte turned Christine at a bit stiltedly, less graceful and harder to follow than himself. "Miss Daaé; you came to the ball, but not in my arms," Raoul said, chiding her in a condescending tone.

She blinked a bit. "I'm not sure what to say to that, Monsieur. I hardly know you."

"Perhaps you would have if you had given me more time the other night," he spun her roughly once more.

Erik's patience wore thin and he stepped in to break up the dance. "M. le Vicomte. I'm sure Mlle. Daaé has enjoyed her dance with you."

Christine automatically leaned into the newly approached form, but had no power to exert one way or the other, tossed between two strong men.

Raoul roughly pulled her to him and she could do nothing but spread her hand onto his chest to keep from toppling over.

At that point, the Ghost made the full power of his presence known, stepping directly in front of Christine, his hands about her waist. "I will take her, Vicomte." He said sharply. There was something about his voice; a hollowness, a haunting quality that would command the other man to step away almost against his will.

In a moment, the Viscount released her clutching his temple. He staggered back, allowing Christine to be swooped into the arms of her mystery suitor.

She was in heaven. She had no control over who or what was pushing her body into motion. Was she drugged? Or was it just the beauty of this strange man's voice? She did not even spare a thought for the Viscount - She flew around the dance floor completely beholden.

The masked man finished the dance, taking her off to the side once more, this time ascending the grand staircase to the second level.

It was her first time on the grand staircase- cast and crew members were encouraged to use the back way. It was like a dream. The cool leather of her admirer's gloves caressed her skin.

She stopped them once they reached the second level. "Who are you?" She asked in wonder.

"I am someone who has taken quite an interest in you," he said with a knowing smirk.

"Do you have a name?"

"Baron Erik du Valance" he replied, leading her towards a table set back in one of the many alcoves.

"Baron.." she mouthed as his back was turned, eyes wide.

She accepted his assistance to her chair and sat with a stiff formality, suddenly no longer sure of how to conduct herself. She had never been around nobility outside of the pushy viscount.

"Does the title set you ill at ease? Honorifics are for society, nothing more," he said simply to her. "You do not need to act differently from how you normally would around me."

She tilted her lips in humor. "I have just met you, Monsieur. I don't know how I normally act around you. "

He nodded, smiling. "Nor I you, I confess. I find you to be as engaging as I had heard you were, and your beauty radiates more brightly up close than from far away."

She flushed and fought a demure smile. "Thank you, Baron. You are very kind."

A waiter sped by with more champagne and Christine motioned for another drink.

The Baron motioned as well for a glass of champagne. "Tell me more about yourself. What brought you to the conservatoire?"

After taking a sip of champagne, Christine responded with an informal shrug, "My father passed away two years ago. I had nowhere to go and Madame Giry helped me get a position here."

"Madame Giry has an eye for talent. She was not mistaken in recruiting you," he said warmly. "And since then you have studied ballet, making your supernumerary debut tomorrow night? When did you learn that you could sing like that?"

"Excuse me?"

"Your voice. Everyone has heard of how wonderful it is. After all, that is why you are a young artist now. Where did you learn to sing?"

She was taken aback. Hardly anyone knew about her singing. She had yet to join the chorus and she was not one to gossip much.

He narrowed his golden, predatory gaze on her. "Word travels fast, and that bodes well for you. I would not be surprised if you found yourself in very high places soon."

Not knowing what to say to that, she laughed. "You flatter me too much, sir!

He shook his head. "Nonsense."

The conversation would wind on, Erik finding her to be as witty and clever as she promised to be in her lessons. Then there was her beauty, such grace and refinement. It was refreshing.

It wasn't until later that she realized just how skillfully he had steered the conversation away from his personal life. By the end of the evening, she did not know him anymore than before the ball!

But at the moment, she could hardly think at all. They stayed for the rest of the evening, trying to elongate their time together. When they were forced to depart by exhausted waitstaff, she paused on the cobblestone of the entrance. "Thank you, Baron...Erik... for everything. For this night."

"And you, Mlle. Daaé. Thank you for your fascinating company." He found himself reaching to take her hand, not wanting to part with her; a small smile gracing his features. When he spoke, his voice was low, tender and sincere.

"Would you like it if I called on you again?"

Her heart fluttered. "I would," she whispered.

He nodded to her, smiling softly beneath his mask. "I will call again, then; if it would please you."

His hand tightened in hers, their gaze locked.

Erik paused, not wanting to end this night with her; desperate to cling to her by any means. "May I walk you home? I know it is only a few blocks, but it is late."

She frowned. "How do you know where I live?"

He dropped his gaze, hiding his worry that he might have known too much,

"I...just assumed that you resided near the Palais, being in the conservatoire."

She accepted that answer reluctantly. "I would like that,"

"Simply lead the way." He murmured, offering her his arm, to escort her.

She walked slowly as she lead him to her unimpressive dormitory. Outside of the plain door, she hesitated, turning to look up at him. "Good night, Sir Baron."

"Erik."

"...Erik." She smiled.

"Good night, Mlle. Daaé. It was a memorable evening for me." He murmured; meeting her gaze as he turned her gently to face him.

She wanted to lean in to him. To place her lips on his. The urge was so great that she had to force herself to lean away and turn toward the door. With a couple more "good nights" Christine was able to tear herself away from him and close the door.

The next morning she awoke with a huge grin on her face. It only grew when she realized it was the morning of her first performance!


	9. Chapter 9

AN: This is where the Mature Content comes in. If you are not interested in this section, once the mushy stuff starts, you can skip to the next chapter.

~o~

 _Love is a gypsy's child, it has never, ever, known a law; love me not, then I love you; if I love you, you'd best beware! - Habenera, Bizet_

~o~

Chapter 9

~o~

The day passed quickly and Christine soon found herself in front of a dressing room mirror, applying pancake makeup to her face. The room around her was loud and bustling, full of men and women rushing for last minute changes.

The backstage was full of fire and chaos. It was a sold out show and every seat was packed to standing room only; save, of course, for box five, which remained empty.

Christine was going to throw up. Right on stage. In front of everyone.

"Meg! I can't do this!"

"Oh, yes you can, Christine." Meg pulled the girl back out of the wings. Meg was in a classical white ballet costume with bare shoulders and a tutu that stopped right below the knee. Dainty linen flowers were placed here and there, making the young woman look like an ethereal sprite. Christine was snug in her layered costume as a random traveling lady.

Meg gave Christine one more reassuring smile then ran off to the Foyer to warm up. Christine heard the strings tune, followed by the other instruments. It was time! Christine looked for a trash bin, just in case.

Erik watched from box five, hidden in shadows. To any onlooker, the box would look completely unused. Act one had concluded with Faust making a deal with the devil and they were moving into the second act, where Christine would make her debut. His stomach was tied in knots. He had never been so excited for a premier- or so nervous for someone else's performance. As the curtain rose, he watched with rapt attention.

Christine herself watched the stage fill in from the wings, waiting for her entrance. She was visibly shaking, though from fear or excitement, she did not know.

The music modulated and she stepped into the blinding electric stage lights. She blinked a few times to adjust her eyes, then threw herself into the moment, becoming alive on stage, shining even while remaining silent and in the background.

The production was going smoothly; the audience was engaged and there were few errors big enough to notice. After the second act, she ran off the stage, face flushed. "Oh, that was so fun!" She squealed to no one in particular.

Erik applauded as the second intermission began. He slipped out of the box and made his way backstage through hidden passageways. He found himself lingering outside of her shared dressing room, waiting for her to be alone.

"You are doing wonderfully, my child," her teacher's voice echoed through the room.

She jumped at the familiar voice and immediately smiled warmly. Eyes lifted, gaze near the ceiling, she answered, "I am simply walking around the stage, teacher!"

"Yet you are walking with grace and purpose. This is your first time on that grand stage. How does it feel?" he asked, his voice brimming with excitement for her.

"It is magical, teacher! Like nothing I've ever felt before! I could die happy right now!"

"Good, cherish that feeling. It is only upwards from here." He lingered for a moment before fading away.

The rest of the production kept a good pace. The finale was soon upon her and she lamented having to leave the stage for the last time until tomorrow.

Entering the dressing room after the finale, Christine found a small tied box waiting for her.

When she opened it, she found an elegant bracelet of silver and red jewels. Garnets and diamonds, Christine suspected.

"To celebrate a successful opening. How I would love to be there celebrating with you now."

Meg gasped behind her. Squealing, she pulled on Christine's arms until she was facing the other women in the room. "WHO gave you that! That secret admirer?! It is too much! He must be so rich!"

Christine tried to calm her friend down, but it was a fruitless task. She continued gushing about this new Baron.

In truth, Christine was speechless. She had never held something so priceless! How could she accept something like this? It would be ruder to not accept, but Christine felt overwhelmed just holding it.

Meg helped her put it on and gave her a sweet kiss on the cheek. The dancers left for the foyer to flirt with noblemen and Christine was once again left alone in the room. She smiled dreamily as she untied and pulled off the heavy angel robe she wore. Underneath was a tattered corset and pantaloons. she bent over at the waist, reaching to untie her shoes. The mirror in front of her reflected her supple cleavage and creamy white shoulders.

Erik narrowed his gaze as he watched her from his vantage point. He should go. It was not right for him to watch her like this. Though she was quite clothed, this was scandalous, not that he had ever bothered with social propriety before. But at heart, he thought himself a gentleman. The seeds of self hatred began to grow as he stood there, unable to pull himself away.

Christine stood and flashed her bracelet in the mirror, watching as the light hit it and danced around the room. She stood up straighter, bending her arms into right angles and crossing her hands in front of her. The pose of a well-bred Frenchwoman. She looked at her body. She did not look like a noblewoman and she was having difficulty seeing herself as one. She was too short. She was too curvy. She was too...poor. She imagined herself in endless ball gowns and turned to the side to watch her silhouette. She pinched in her waist with her hands and puffed out her chest . She sighed and shook her head. Reaching behind her, she slowly untied her corset and let it drop to the ground. She was not wearing a shift underneath. (As was common for actors in the day. The heat of the stage made it nearly unbearable.) She was nude from the waist up. The hand wearing the glittering bracelet reached up to her neck and slowly slid down her shoulders to the crest of her breasts, watching the jewels contrast against her porcelain skin.

How could they have known how similar their thoughts ran. She thought of the Baron and she thought of her teacher- both completely out of her reach in very different ways.

Christine liked the way the bracelet hit the swell of her breast and she held it there for a minute, watching the jewels hit her pink nipple which contracted and puckered with the stimulus of the cool stones and the heat of her thoughts.

Erik leaned against the wall, staring at her. He felt himself grow hard in his pants, his desire penetrating his deepest thoughts and utmost desires; all for her. How he longed to trace his hands over those breasts, down her abdomen, to her hips.

As if on command, Christine's hand followed his desired path down the front of her body. She experimentally grabbed the flesh of her hips, covered by her pantaloons. One hand travelled lower, hesitantly like she was unused to such actions. Her fingers brushed the heat between her thighs over the fabric. She cupped her womanhood and her knees nearly buckled. Flinging her head back, she trembled at the sensation. One breath. Two. She reluctantly released herself and exhaled deeply, turning away to dress in her shabby brown skirts.

He let a hand dip down, outlining the hard length in his pants as he watched her. When she released herself, he would drop his gaze to the floor. Looking up once more, he slid away into the darkness, retreating to his lair. He was pent up with desire, with an ever growing obsession for her. Right along with his loathing. His hatred for himself burned like fiery coals searing through, immolating his spirit.

On the other side of the mirror stood another figure, tormented. Eric's desire was swiftly consuming him. Could he not see her tonight, call on her again? No, it would be too risky, too dangerous. Yet, he needed her, desired her; wanted her for himself. For his music. For his bed. With a soft whine, he turned from the mirror and left the scene.

Erik could not return to the lair, could not sleep; and so he went to Chabanais street; seeking the satisfaction that only _she_ could give him. Money changed hands; a handsome sum that would ensure absolute discretion.

The bright street of Chabanais seemed to only exist after the sun had gone down. But once night fell, no one could argue the power of the location. Royalty were drawn to their knees, overruled by the beauty of bare skin and cunning women. The Belle Epoche ran on prostitution. It was hardwired into the culture and into the very streets themselves. Every street corner of the Chabanais, men could choose from a line of women, or enter a brothel to more discretely be served.

When he entered his assigned room, his gaze lingered on Colette, devouring her. Yet it was not the fetching whore whom he saw before him, but his muse. Slow steps were made, approaching the woman. He wore his opera finery, his mask fixed firmly on him.

Colette knew to keep quiet. The first time this strange man visited her, she was nearly cuffed for opening her mouth.

She wore nothing under the gaudy dress. Easier to peel out of. She turned around without being commanded and placed her hands against the wall, waiting.

He eyed her over,hands slipping over her sides, up, through her hair. Hands then would slip under that dress; hiking it up; hands running and gripping commandingly at her hips, groaning as he felt the bare skin of her rear. A sharp sting would ring through her as he spanked her once, that hand swiftly dipping between her legs, rubbing over her womanhood in a skilled manner.

She threw her head back and groaned. Colette was secretly head over heels in love with this familiar customer and looked forward to his visits with a giddiness that would embarrass her if any of her sisters knew. This man played a woman's body like a musician played an instrument. Never had she experience such seduction and pleasure than at the hands of this masked was breathtakingly pale, her breasts fuller than he would have imagined them to be. He couldn't let her leave here without him...

The night was cold, but Colette had long learned to tolerate it. Her thick, curly brown hair hung down to her elbows and her pleasantly plump body presented nicely in her colorful gown.

This one always indulged him. Her name, he never used it; but called her always the object of his obsession. As a result, he saw that she was compensated accordingly, generously. A hand grabbed a fistful of curled hair; pulling her head back as he spanked her once more, before plunging two fingers inside of her. "You know how much I've wanted you...Christine.." He gasped, his voice ragged with lust, desire.

She swallowed an impassioned scream and nodded silently, bucking against his hand.

He kissed her hard on the lips as his hand on her hair pulled her more upright. He peeled that dress down, over her shoulder,; both hands working now on stripping her. There was an intensity with which he did it, needing her nude, exposed, bare for him and only him.

She was not used to his insistence and wondered what got him in such a state. She remained passive, reacting eagerly but never dominantly. She thrust her naked chest toward him, needing his touch.

He kissed her one more time before turning her back to how she was when they started, bending over against the wall; her ass presented to him. He was dressed, and he remained dressed as he dropped his pants, freeing himself. A few gliding motions and he would plunge himself, deep within her; moaning as his thick length filled her; fucking her with wild abandon, savagery, even; so great was his desperation.

The force of his movements caused her body to slam against the wall, but he did not even seem to notice in his frantic actions. She let her body thump against the wall with each thrust and bit her lip to keep from crying out in pain - or ecstasy.

He took her hard against that wall, grunting and moaning as he thrust; both hands on her ass for leverage. Finally, he would pull back, gripping her by the hair as he pulled her back for a searing kiss before flinging her to the bed.

Colette let her body fall into a heap on the mattress, enjoying his rough nature. She languidly rolled onto her back and lewdly bent her knees and spread her legs open,  
giving him a fine view of her femininity.

He moved over her, removing only his jacket now. Lips found hers as he would thrust, pounding into her. His hands gripped hers, pinning them above her head as he took her. "Yes...you are exquisite..." He grunted, lost in his fantasy with his obsession.

Colette was so fulfilled with him in her arms. She was in heaven as he touched and controlled her body. His extra passionate mood tonight drove her over the edge and words came tumbling out before she could stop them.

"I love you!"

He didn't respond, not with words, as her tumbling over the edge caused him to nearly lose control. "Yes...you are so perfect..." He groaned loudly. He would pull out of her, just to turn her onto her stomach, pushing her down as he drove into her; gripping her ass with such possessiveness, revelling in the pink hue of her normally pale flesh.

"Ahh Monsieur!" She yelled in a hoarse alto timber.

He threw his head back as he muttered her name.. "Yes..Christine.." He murmured, her name on his lips as he thrust more raggedly, his pleasure obviously coming very soon.

"Call me Colette! Please, Monsieur! Call me by my name!" She was nearing her own edge.

He seemed unable to do that, or at least unwilling. "Give..yourself..to me!" He growled as sweat formed over him, the edges of his shirt soaked with sweat and her fluids; a hand moving to grip her hair, grinding her against him as he began to lose control.

She felt him shake and spasm as he found his orgasm. She pretended to reach hers as well, all the while trying not to cry over his silent refusal.

When he came down, Erik nearly collapsed on her. He was breathing hard, lingering in those moments with her, pinning her beneath him as he recovered. Lips would find the back of her neck, kissing; all the while unable to say her name.

He would not turn her. He never did. He never wished to look upon her face before leaving with an impressive tip on the counter. Her heart felt heavy as he moved away.

He left her there, as he always did.

Colette's tears remained unobserved as she stayed huddled on the bed, allowing just this moment to let into her grief.


	10. Chapter 10

~o~

 _Oh madness! Oh fury! Oh desperate Electra! Farewell love, farewell hope! The cruel Furies already burn my heart in my breast. Wretched woman, why do I hesitate?- D'Oreste d'Ajace, Idomeneo, Mozart_

 _~o~_

Chapter 10

~o~

Christine nearly overslept her ballet lesson. As it was, she had missed the beginning plies and ran into the studio, still wrapping her blue ribbon about her waist. A firm and expected reprimand by the Ballet Mistress in the form of a hard thump on the backside with her cane and she was back in line practicing her tendus.

A letter came in the middle of the class. A delivery boy bowed and handed the letter to the mistress. She read it briefly and looked up sharply to Christine.

Christine noticed and swallowed thickly. _What had she done now?_

"Mlle. Daaé. Come with me." The mistress spoke sharply, turning to stalk over to her office on the opposite side of the room.

When the two of them entered, the mistress spoke firmly. "Shut the door behind you, if you would."

She padded into the office in her toe shoes, hands shaking.

Before the mistress said anything, Christine babbled apologies, "Please pardon me, Madame! I will not be late again! I promise!-"

"No, you shan't. At least not here you will not be. You are to immediately begin work with the chorus. You are to report to their rehearsal at once," she announced firmly, eyeing her over with a hard expression.

"It would seem, Mlle. Daaé, that someone very powerful is eager to see you succeed." The ballet mistress wondered at that moment if this girl even understood what she was getting herself into.

Christine snapped her mouth closed with an audible click when she realized it had been hanging open.

"You are to report there immediately- rehearsal has already begun and you are late."

Christine did not have time to run home and change from her dance apparel, so she wrapped a shawl and cloak around her uniform and quickly changed into her street shoes to run over to the theatre. She had to ask multiple times where the chorus could be found and when she finally reached the decadent rehearsal space, she was terribly tardy. When she bounded through the door, everyone stopped to stare at her.

"Pardonnez moi," she whispered and attempted to fade into the gold plated walls.

"Ah yes, our new recruit from the ballet. You are late, but we shall excuse this tardiness and not believe it to reflect on the laxness of Madame Giry. We know that it is not the case. Do stay after, please, for placing," the chorus master said sharply as an assistant handed a score to her.

"Soprano, alto." He motioned, dictating that she take a seat where she deemed herself to be appropriate.

She scooted toward the sopranos, and the women around her gave her a wide berth. The stares did not diminish after the introduction. The men leered, some openly, some not, at her exposed legs and shoulders. The women sniffed and ignored her.

If she had doubted that she was appealing, that moment should have cleared that up. They were in rehearsal for their next production: A staging of Verdi's La Traviata. It was the begining of the rehearsal process, and they were covering the chorus parts of the opening, about to his the act one duet and chorus "Libiamo, ne' lieti calici"; one of the more famous pieces from the work.

The musical pace was intense. This was not a lesson, this was clearly a professional engagement.

She fought to keep from drowning the entire rehearsal. She read music with the best of them- she knew her words almost as well. But the language was foreign and she felt she only understood half of what was being said. Her teacher must have been very wrong- she had no place here.

Erik was watching and observing the rehearsal with a smile. Christine looked overwhelmed. She was not, but the experience was so new and foreign to her that it must have felt so utterly chaotic for her.

"Where is Louise?" the chorus master frowned, peering at the sopranos. They had rehearsed the chorus and were now ready to run it with soloists. However, the soprano who was to cover Violetta during the rehearsal runs was absent.

"Oh, sir! She is ill today," one of the soprano's meekly said.

"Well, then; this will not do. Surely there's one of you here who can sing this for our purposes today?"

Christine's eyes widened as she looked around. Her teacher had been working on this repertoire- as if on purpose! - but she surely was not yet ready for standing in a soloist's place. Yet, no other woman raised her hand or spoke out.

She'd hear a familiar, insisting voice in her head. "Well. This is your chance. Seize it."

She jumped in surprise, bringing attention to her. As the chorus master's beady eyes zeroed in on her, she coughed lightly. "I can sing it, sir," she whispered in a meek, powerless voice.

"Excuse me, madame, did you speak?" He barked condescendingly.

"I can... sing it, sir," she croaked out, louder.

"Well then come, come, let us not delay any further. It's not your grand premier, girl, just something to help us rehearse. Nothing to be afraid of."

Of course, at that, the entire chorus' attention turned to her, expectantly. The opening of the drinking song played, and the tenor began to sing. When the second strophe began, the chorus master looked at her expectantly..

Erik was living vicariously through her in those moments, the thoughts in his head a running narrative.

"Like that. Release, breath; slowly, completely, tongue; jaw, all relaxed. Eyes fiery, engaged. Yes, with him, even him; do it you silly girl."

He realized he was thinking aloud, under his breath, coaching his muse through every stage of this.

She started badly. Shaking and unsure, it took an overly dramatic eye roll from the choral master to push her. But her voice did not really come alive until she heard her teachers words in her ear.

"You've have sung this. You are suited for this. Sing. For. Me." He commanded in the turn around of one of her phrases, pushing her to open her voice up, to be vulnerable for them.

She found her voice swelling and blooming, finally. The chorus was to come in now. But no sound accompanied her. She opened her eyes and the room was staring at her, slack jawed. "Oh..."

The chorus master was one of the people caught in that collective silence. After a few moments, he gathered himself and tapped his baton.

"Measure 95, we continue. And..."

She barely remembered the rest of the rehearsal; it flew by like a dream.

Afterward, she found herself free until the night's call. She wrapped her cloak around her, covering her ballet uniform, and reluctantly walked home. On the way there, the first snowfall of the season began. She looked up to the sky and watched the snowflakes fall around her. It was beautiful. As she continued her way home, her smile was just as brilliant.

When Erik returned to his lair, he found himself busy. Signora Carlotta was engaged to sing Violetta. That simply must not happen, he had decided. So letters demanding Miss Daaé to be considered for the position were issued, not from an opera ghost; but from her mysterious Baron, her patron, promising a considerable donation for such a consideration from their part.

Whispers were already spread amongst the cast as Christine arrived at the theatre that night. She noticed the pointing and the snickers and assumed she had embarrassed herself in some manner earlier. So she ignored them, taking her time applying her pancake make up and taking stock of her props.

"You've made quite a name for yourself Christine, don't you think?" Meg called to her, cheerful, enjoying the chittering and chattering that was fluttering about the place as they prepared.

Christine looked at her friend with a perplexed smile.  
"What do you mean, Meg?"

"Singing the solo on your first day in rehearsal. You know that most people don't do that until they've been there for years!" She commented, thrilled. "Then there is the manner of you being considered for Violetta., It's caused quite a stir, and I'd avoid Signora Carolta, if I were you."

"...Considered for..." Christine's stomach plummeted to her feet.

"Yes, No one seems to know why, but there is chatter that you'll be singing to audition for the role," she said, shrugging. "One could only know why."

"Yes... of course…." Christine stared at the wall, thinking of only one person who could or would do this for her. (Strangely enough the Baron did not cross her mind)

"Well, you are excited, are you not! Tell me, have they approached you yet about it?" Meg asked, hopping a bit in her excitement.

"Well, you are excited, are you not! Tell me, have they approached you yet about it?" She said, hopping a bit in her excitement.

"Obviously not, Meg! I had no idea! It's probably just some ugly rumor to upset Carlotta."

 _"Obviously_ , it is hardly a rumor; everyone is talking about it!" At that, she paused, realizing that what she said made little sense. "My point is that you have an exciting time ahead of you!" She said encouragingly. "And that you have been invited out, by me, to our cafe after tonight's performance! After all, it is Sunday tomorrow, no performance, no class!"

Christine rolled her eyes. "Maybe, Meg. I'll see how I feel." She scooted her friend away so she could tame her wild hair in some semblance of a proper chignon.

The first act was brilliant. The audience was enraptured and the two men on the stage were completely immersed in their scene- playing and feeding off each other like a passionate dance. Christine giggled at the thought of the two very proud men being called passionate toward each other.

The energy continued as act two began and Christine nearly floated onto the stage. During Mephisto's aria, she bounded and lept and seduced the audience with her charm.

She was exiting with a quick dancer's run, arms extended into arabesque, when something came out of the floor and tripped her. Falling flat on her face, on the edge of the wings, still in full view of the audience. The audience roared in laughter.

She looked up and saw Carlotta's dress flit by as she strode center stage, sparing Christine one malicious smile on the way.

Horrified, Christine scrambled to her feet and ran off stage, nearly in tears.

Erik had watched the scene, narrowing his gaze. This was unfortunate for her, and he realized now that it would be important for her to recover from this humiliation less she retreat into her head. He would appear in her mind as she scrambled into the wings.

"It's alright. Focus. Let that moment go; it is gone forever, in the dust of memory and time. Live in the present, my child."

She did let one tear fall as she nodded. "Thank you, teacher," she whispered. The crowd around her heard her mumble something but assumed it was to herself.

It took a little bit for her to get back into the spirit of things, but she soon was riding high once more. It wasn't until the last act, as Marguerite ascended to heaven that Christine was once again accosted. She was on the second level of risers in full angel regalia, about five feet off of the ground. Carlotta spread her arms wide as the opera ended, reaching passed one small super to hit Christine's wooden, feathered wing. The curtain was not half way down as she hit the ground hard. She had tried to catch herself, but the wings were too heavy and her head hit the ground with an audible thump.

When Erik witnessed this act of sabotage, he growled in a low voice. The Prima Donna would suffer for that, dearly. He snarled as he narrowed his gaze on her. Later.

Christine blacked out for all of thirty seconds and when she came to, she was being carried to an empty dressing room- one spacious and well dressed, meant for a primary singer. Her vision was doubled and she had difficulty answering everyone's questions. The vision of one eye was obscured. She touched her face and it came away red. She was laid down on a fainting couch and the local doctor was summoned. Within minutes, the doctor (usually on call for performances) rushed in with his iconic black doctor's bag and knelt beside poor Christine.

Erik would be in the room, yet not, watching intently from his hiding place. His heart was torn up with fire as he watched. In a rage, at that moment, he disappeared.

Any focus that was on Christine would soon be torn away as a diva came screaming into the grand hall of the Palau's Garnier, disrupting he little bit of chatter that was going on.

"How dare you! THE GALL! The NERVE! I have never been so bullied in my life!?"

Everyone stopped to stare at the rabid diva, not knowing what was going on.

"Who wrote this!?" I must know at once!" she screamed, throwing the letter at a nearby stage manager, who read it aloud.  
 _  
_"Um _...Signora Carlotta, your time at the Palais Garnier is coming to an end. Other houses in Europe may have need of an overbearing, vocally flat, and artistically void diva, yet we have no need for such one here._

 _Inquire, perhaps, in New York._

 _If your bags are not packed and your room not vacated by Monday, morning, a tragedy most dire shall befall this house._

 _-O.G."_

"New York! I have never been so insulted!"

"O.G. -Madame, you are lucky to leave here with your life if you have displeased the opera ghost!" said someone behind her.

"Gah! I will hear nothing of this! This ghost is a trick! Someone trying to dethrone me! Well, let it be known. It. Will. Not. Work!"

Back in the dressing room, Christine was being fed water as the gash on her forehead was cleaned and sutured.

Meg was crying, holding fast to her friend and Christine found herself trying to calm the poor distraught girl.

The figure on the other side of the wall wanted - more than anything - to reveal himself to her. Not as her teacher or as her patron; as her companion, as someone who would cherish her and care for her. Instead, he paced, brooding, plotting. He could be patient, he really could, but this would not do. Rage, anger, consumed him. So, he paced, waited, watching his Christine suffer; unable to do a thing to assuage it.

Christine was soon left alone with only Meg by her side. They had been told that they may stay in the dressing room for as long as she needed to recover.

"I'm surprised your mysterious patron has not come running, Christine! I haven't seen hide nor hair of him since the masquerade! If I hadn't seen him with my own eyes, I would doubt his existence!"

Christine worried her hands, watching her fingers grasp each other."It... concerns me too, Meg."

"What do you mean?"

"Well... he has gifted me with such wonderful items. Useful, thoughtful things and beautiful adornments, both! And yet... he has yet to call in any... favors from me."

Meg's eyes widened. "He has been your patron for months! I know some take the romantic, seductive route, but Christine, why would he do such things without asking for your company?"

Christine shook her head. "I wish I knew. I would think he moved on from me if his gifts weren't so regular."

Erik lingered through the conversation, but soon stalked off after the girls turned to other topics. It pained him to hear such things from her, yet he knew that he had no place by her side. It was impossible, because of who he was. Because of what he was. He turned away, his heart burning with self-loathing and rage.


	11. Chapter 11

**AN:** Another short one with poor Colette. Another wonderful, accurate source for studying 19th Century ballet history is the collection of paintings/sculptures of the impressionist Edgar Degas. Nearly half of his work was of dancers and he used to spend a great deal of time in the Paris Opera House, studying the ballerinas in their dance classes.

~o~

 _When I look in your eyes all my pain and woe fades: when I kiss your mouth I become whole: when I recline on your breast I am filled with heavenly joy: and when you say, 'I love you', I weep bitterly. - Wenn ich in deine Augen seh, Schumann_

~o~

Chapter 11

~o~

Colette received a box that night. In it was a white corset and ballet skirt that she recognized in another long standing client's artwork. She had worn almost the exact costume for the sweet-tempered and amorous Edgar. She had posed for his paintings, floating her arms like a ballerina as he sketched her.

She smiled at the fond memories of Monsieur Degas.

The pointe shoes were foreign, but not too uncomfortable. The note demanded she wear this ensemble tonight when Master Erik, as she liked to think of him, came to visit. Not knowing when to expect him, she hurriedly dressed and poured some brandy in two glasses. She sipped a little beforehand to calm her nerves before sitting still as a statue, waiting for her Master's arrival.

Half of an hour later, he entered, a brooding, painful energy tearing through him to fill the room.

"Good evening..." he muttered to her, not saying her name. He removed his jacket at once, which was a strange development for him. Typically, he remained dressed; always efficient with their meetings and never staying after; always remaining mostly dressed the entire time. He eyed her in the ensemble, the image of his whore and the image of his muse blurring together as one.

She curtsied to him, demure and shy, waiting for a cue as to how to act. She gestured to the brandy, offering him some if he wished. It cost her half her weekly wages, but she enjoyed sharing it with her extra special customers.

He accepted a glass with a nod, and took a sip; something he would never ever do. "You look beautiful," he murmured, his voice low. He approached her, tracing a hand along her arm.

'Thank you, sir," she responded with a smile. She took her own glass and sipped from it,

He sat his glass down and reached for her, two strong hands gripping her hips, pulling her roughly to him. "You know how I care about you...worship you?" He murmured, kissing her forehead, lips dipping to hers.

"Yessss," she hissed into his mouth. She was in control his completely.

Hands pulled at her dance outfit, tearing down the corset, unlacing knots only to lose patience and tear at that corset, savagely, brutally. "You will give me..exactly..what I want..?"

"Always, my Lord, " she answered. She left her arms down and relaxed- the way he liked it. Total control. He could manipulate her body into whatever he wanted.

And he would do just that, the corset falling away as he pushed her back onto the bed. looking down at her, he removed his shirt, exposing for the first time his chest; well muscled, fit; older than her, but handsomely built nonetheless.

It was like being told a secret or shown a unicorn. This man baring even the tiniest bit of himself was so rare, so special. She spread her hands over his chest and pressed into him, scratching lightly.

He kissed her hard, moving over her, his hands undoing his pants. Then he was nude before her, the first in the entirety of his time with her. Pulling at the tutu, he traced down her legs, groaning when he felt the point shoes. "I...need to..take you..now."

"Yes, please!" She writhed beneath him encouragingly.

He pulled away at the tutu, ripping a hole in the crotch; finally moving to kiss her, hard. He would thrust, finding her entrance.

He had taken her before, many times over, but this time, he took her with a passion that she could never even imagine.

She screamed his name as she found her little death over and over again.

It was wild and deep. He turned her through position after position, his grip rough, his pace, relentless.

Soon, his climax came and he collapsed onto her. He was exhausted, totally spent, totally worn.

She clutched to him as hard as she could as he found his edge. After he stilled, she moved her hand up to caress the bare side of his face.

He kissed her in that moment, the blurred reality still pouring over them. In that moment, he was content, just totally relaxed, sated; though the self loathing still lingered.

"Erik, I love you," the whore murmured. Her voice was like a smokey mezzo crooning.

"Christine..." He just gasped, half delirious, half exhausted. He shifted, showing no intention of getting up in that moment.

Her heart broke, but even as it lay bleeding, she still didn't have the heart to move him. He paid for more than a whole night, so she had no reason to kick him out if she enjoyed his company, as stolen as it felt.

Erik lingered there for a moment longer before rising from the bed.

Colette joined him. "Merci, Monsieur. You are always so gracious." She sounded put out, broken, but she curtsied with proper respect.

Erik nodded and began to dress. "You...are always kind to me," He said, unsure, as if thank someone were foreign to his lips.

She dropped her eyes so he wouldn't see the pain in them. "Anything for you, sir." She wanted him to leave. He always rushed out. Why was he now taking his time! It was excruciating to be near him after he called out some strange woman's name. Christine. Always Christine!

Finally, he turned away, finishing dressing and preparing to leave. For her, it would be as if he was there one moment and suddenly gone the next, leaving her empty. Barren.


	12. Chapter 12

~o~

He Loves Me; He is Gone

~o~

 _Heav'n! What a chill doth overrun me! What if this potion work not at all? Idle terrors!... Now to doubt, that were to disown thee, to fear were my love to betray, never! Never! Rather for dead may he bemoan me! Ah! for dead bemoan me! - Romeo et Juliette, Gonoud_

 _~o~_

~~Chapter 12~~

~o~

Christine was not awakened the next morning and so her eyes did not open until the sun was already high in the sky. She jumped out of her bed...wait...lounge? It all came back to her, the nearly perfect performance and why she was currently in a private dressing room with a massive headache.

She tried to raise to her feet, but found that she could do little more than grab onto something and stand as her head swam violently.

When the room cleared, she noticed poor Meg on a different sofa. She smiled fondly and went- slowly!- to wake her up.

Meg stirred and opened her eyes. . "Hello there. How does your head feel?" she asked, eyeing Christine sleepily.

"Like I fell from heaven," she joked.

She graciously accepted a dress from Meg's wardrobe. It didn't fit well as Meg was much taller and did not have the natural curves that Christine had, but outside of a little more cleavage than she was used to, it was appropriate enough.

The choirmaster tried to get her to go home, but she refused. They tried to get her to miss the performance but she refused that as well. She wanted to be on the stage. She would just have to watch her feet and limbs around Carlotta.

~~~  
Carlotta was fuming, her head held defiantly proud in an arrogant display that was clearly meant to anger the Opera Ghost. She was successful, as Erik stalked about the opera house brooding and generally plotting her demise.

They had a few more performances left of Faust, keeping Christine busy from thinking too hard about the Traviata business, but Carlotta worried little about technique and preparation for a show she had already performed and she spent most of her time cursing the petite soprano and trying to finagle her way into her rightful place in the opera.

The bitch was hardy. A fall on the head did not scare her away for even an evening. She would have to try something more... permanent.

Carlotta would be rather clever about this, yet things would seem to thwart her every step of the way. She'd try to cut into Christine's shoes, sabotaging them, yet she would find that the shoes would be somehow replaced before the show. She poisoned her tea with an herb that would cause her skin to break out in hives, yet...the tea was replaced.

All the while, Erik found himself getting increasingly incensed with the meddling diva.

Christine's wound on her forehead was finally able to be completely covered by grease paint by closing night. Her headaches had mostly gone and she felt strong again, thinking it was the stage itself granting her health. Strangely enough, Christine thought, Carlotta had left her well enough alone. Perhaps it was all a  
mistake after all- not some malicious prank.

Closing night was going well. The audience was not terribly engaged, but the energy on the stage was high. It wasn't until act three that anything strange happened.

Christine was cinched tight in an eighteenth century corset over a low cut chemise which bared her shoulders, cleavage and one leg as the skirt hitched up. The visage of a common whore. In this, she was supposed to be a witch, a succubus trying to seduce and persuade Faust to forget his incarcerated love.

The stage was full- nearly the entire cast crowding around the two damned men. Right as she was beginning to run onto the stage, bustling past many bodies,  
She felt a sharp prick in her arm. She squealed and grabbed her bicep. Looking behind her, she saw Joseph Bouquet with a remorseful expression on his face. He took off his hat and smiled sadly at her.

She frowned but was late for her entrance, so she ran onto the stage to grip and writhe against Faust, as the choreography was written.

The scene was long, with the ballet corps coming on and dancing through the instrumental actions as Faust battled with his heart and the devil simply laughed and looked proudly over his hellish domain.

At first she thought it was another headache. But then she felt lightheaded and lost feeling in her fingers and toes. After about ten minutes on stage, she was gripping onto Faust for real, for she no longer could stand.

The tenor noticed and wrapped his arm around her waist and spared her a brief look of concern before continuing the scene. Her head flopped back wantonly, presenting the mound of her breasts to the man holding her. Except she had lost consciousness.

The tenor deftly lifted her and grandly moved to the edge of the wings, quickly handing her off to a stage hand before carrying on, right in time for his solo.

Erik, of course, had seen this happen. all of it. His heart was enraged, not knowing whether to care for his muse or murder the man who dared harm Christine. Her lithe, unconscious form eventually ended up in the arms of Madame Giry, the ballet mistress.

She had been poisoned Erik was certain of it, and he could help her; if only he could get her to his lair.

The Madame Giry heard a voice resonating in her head. "Have everyone else leave the room, now. You remain."

"Shoo! Quickly, everyone!" They were back in the private dressing room that Christine was becoming more and more acquainted with.

"She cannot breathe! She needs air. Everyone, leave now! You too Meg!"

Christine was indeed having difficulty breathing. She struggled against the cinched corset to take quick, rasping sips of air. Her lips were becoming blue- a sure sign of cyanosis. She had gained consciousness, but barely, unable to respond to questions or realize where she was.

Even Mme. Giry recognizes the signs of cyanide poisoning. Her heart broke. There was no cure.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~(ooo the temptation to end the chapter there!)~~~~~

At that very moment, a mirror opened and Erik stepped through. "I must take her now. I can save her, but her time is fleeting," he announced, moving to scoop her up in his arms.

"Oh Erik, I don't know if even your magic can save her now," Giry moaned. However, she did step out of the way to allow The Phantom to pick up the shivering, gasping girl.

"This isn't magic, Madame Giry, this is chemistry," he said firmly, rushing to bring Christine down to his lair.

His home had obviously not been prepared for company. Clutter coated every available surface and empty wine bottles littered the corners. It was a frantic space - one corner table taken up by blue print scribbles and architectural tools. Another corner held herbs, strange liquids and a Bunsen burner. Beautiful artistic sketches and paintings were pinned to the walls in no apparent order. The back wall was dominated by a grand organ, the only thing meticulously taken care of, even as it was littered with crumpled and stained paper and empty wine glasses. It was a palace for a genius. Or a madman. But such things were not important to either soul in the room; far more important matters filled their minds.

A lavish couch of red velvet sat in the middle of the floor, surrounded by a cluttering of books. Christine was laid there gently, then quickly abandoned for the table with strange chemicals. Within minutes, there was boiling thiosulphate in a beaker under the burner. Amyl nitrate was prepared next while the thiosulphate burned. It did not take long for the noxious gas to be created and bottled. Minutes that lasted a lifetime passed.

When the cyanide antidote was prepared, one bottle to drink and one bottle to inhale afterward, one glance over to the couch would reveal Christine no longer breathing.

It could not come to soon, could not be ready too swiftly. With a sprint, he would tear towards Christine, swiftly pouring the liquid down her through. He did not consider himself a man of faith by any means, but he prayed in that moment that whatever deity reigned might take pity on her in that moment, or curse him with even more suffering that he already could bear. Moments after she reflexively swallowed, he w wafted the gas over her nostrils, hoping for any sign of life.

She was not inhaling. There was no breath at all. The tight corset was rigid and bare  
of any movement.

Hands worked over the corset quickly. She needed to breathe and there was no allowing that to happen with that thing on. He tore it and the corset released. Yet, she did not breathe.

He growled at that and positioned her head to a neutral position. He did chest compressions, his heart racing as he would place his lips to hers, breathing air into her, trying to kick start her breath. It did not even register to him that this was, in fact, their first kiss.

It was violent work. Her shift was nearly off of her shoulders completely and spittle ran from the corners of Christine's mouth.  
It was during one brutal exhaling kiss, one that employed all of an opera singer's significant diaphragmatic muscles, that Christine finally gasped. She sucked in air through her open mouth, her lips still up against Eric's.

He pulled back and swiftly opened the bottled gas which he rapidly wafted under her nostrils. "Breathe...breathe...my child. Breathe, and you will make it out of this alive."

She continued to gulp big gusts of air, choking on the fumes. Her lips and fingers slowly turned from blue to an angry, painful red and Christine began to moan, not quite conscious but very much alive.

"That's it...easy my dear...Just breathe,..." He comforted, his heart beating out of his chest. He felt as if part of himself had nearly died with her, a half that he never knew that he had before this moment, now one that he couldn't dare to part from again.

Beyond a passageway of curtains was a room with a beautiful bed and feminine decor. It was immaculately clean, as if waiting for a young lady to chance upon it.

It was like that because he had made it to be so. It was something that he was quite proud of, and yet deeply ashamed of. Why would a woman such as her want to retreat to such a dungeon as this, with a monster as him. No matter, he would take her there now; however forbidden it might be. He scooped her up, carrying her to the room. He laid her down gently and bundled her with covers. She was so beautiful, even at death's door.

One hand reached out to him as he pulled back from her. It dropped again as she shifted into true sleep.

He sighed, sinking onto the edge of the bed. His hand found the limb which had just fallen and he took it, squeezing it gently as he found himself unable to pull away from her there.

She slept fitfully that night, and the day afterward. The dose of cyanide was significant and it wasn't until late into the third night that she truly regained consciousness.

She awoke to the sound of a piano wafting from outside of her door. Her room was lit with the soft glow of candle light. Raising slowly from the bed, she opened the door and stepped into a magnificent cavernous alcove, filled with the contradiction of bare, unfinished stone and beautiful furnishings. Many tapestries were strewn about, creating a maze of rooms. Only the room that she had exited was built of man-made walls and a true door. The edge of a black lake was in view and across from he, a man in a familiar porcelain half mask was playing a low, mournful, piece on a grand piano. The piece honestly sounded about twenty years before it's time, making it seem beautiful and strange. He was wearing a white linen shirt, that which one would wear under a formal jacket, almost suggesting that he had recently been somewhere formal, or just hadn't changed out of those clothes in the three days that she had been unconscious.

Truthfully, he hadn't left the lair, hadn't eaten, barely slept..He was totally consumed with her well being.

Christine followed the music as if in a trance. The man at the piano was half in darkness, so she could barely make out his features. She crept closer, silent and careful, stopping a good distance away- close enough that if he turned his head, she would see the lines of his uncovered face.

The man heard the noise of her approaching and spoke. His voice was ever so familiar. But who would she hear? The teacher? The baron? Both?

"Mlle. Daaé. You are awake. I feared the absolute worst for you," he said in an unearthly voice, turning to face her in that dark, subterranean room.

She felt half dead and her body denied her any strength but she was still able to startle once again and drop her jaw. "Erik...?"

He stood at the piano. "Yes, it is me. Erik." He took a step closer to her. "How do you feel? You were poisoned, my child."

"Where... am I? I feel so fuzzy, like my mind and my body won't connect... poisoned. I... I don't understand any of this." The strength left her and she began to wobble of her feet.

He advanced rapidly, grabbing her by the hips to steady her. "You will understand in time that your ascendency at that opera house is imminent, and that there are some who would resort to lethal means to prevent that." He paused, his hands lingering on her hips. "But worry not about that...they shall be dealt with."

Her mind was so cloudy, she could do nothing but nod placidly. "I... I think I need to lay back down."

He would lift her, carrying her back to that room. "Of course...I will bring you food; you must be famished."

She cuddled against his warmth, still half in a daze. "Thank you, Erik," she whispered.

"It's...nothing." He said simply, not explaining anything yet to her when she was so weak. He lay her back in bed, disappearing to prepare a meal for her.

She was already asleep when he got back.

The rest of the night was fitful and delirious. She took water and food when prompted, but would remember nothing of it.

Another twenty-four hours had her skin return to a normal healthy flush and when she awoke, she blinked, clear-headed for the first time since the opera.


	13. Chapter 13

**He Loves Me; He is Here**

o~

Oft she visits this lov'd mountain,

Oft she bathes her in this fountain;

Here, here, Acteon met his fate,

Here pursu'd by his own hounds,

And after mortal wound she could discover'd too late. - Dido and Aeneas, Purcell

~o~

~~~ Chapter 13 ~~~

~o~

Again, that soft piano music was playing as Christine awoke. She listened to it sleepily for a moment before it stopped. A few moments later, Erik would be in her doorway, smiling softly, if hesitantly. "How do you feel?"

"It was you, " she breathed. "I thought I had dreamt it all." She looked down at her sweaty, smelling stage shift and buried herself farther into the covers.

"Erik,.. what is going on?"

He crossed his arms, shrugging. "You were poisoned," he responded conversationally. "I saved you. Cyanide. Someone in the opera house does not want to see you ascend and they are willing to go to lethal measures to prevent it."

She blinked. That voice...

"T..Teacher?" Her voice was small, unsure.

"Yes, my child," He said simply, approaching her. His heart was pounding through his chest, utterly worried that she would reject him in that moment.

Christine looked down, so utterly confused. Perhaps she was still in a drugged haze?

"The whole time?" She asked, her face blank and her voice without tonation, revealing nothing of her feelings.

Erik watched her closely. "I am unsure of what you mean. Am I the teacher who spoke to you and taught you? Yes. I am," He said, taking another step closer to her.

"As well as my patron?" Her voice was stronger now, her eyes raising to bore into his.

He was silent for only a moment. "I am the baron you met at the ball; the man who gave you such lavish gifts." His gaze locked on hers. "Do you fear me, with this mask, in this strange underground home?"

"If I already know who you are, why do you wear a mask?" She looked around, noting the thick rock of the walls and the complete absence of windows. She shook her head in bewilderment.

"You do not wish to see me without this mask, Mlle. Daaé," He said firmly, more of a command than a request or advisement.

Her eyebrows scrunched in reaction to his adamant response. She nodded her head slowly. "I do not fear you, Teacher...Baron..." She laughed a little, nervous, "No matter whom you have been, you have done nothing but support me. And I suppose now I owe you my life."

"One could say that, though I would never demand anything like that from you." He lowered his gaze. "You see, now, why I could never reveal myself to you, why I have always sang to you, spoken to you, in the shadows."

"No," She said. Incredulity- strength - began to creep into her voice. "I don't understand at all! Why all of this hiding?"

He dropped his gaze; his voice low, a bit pained. "I am disfigured. I hide because it is essential to my survival and my ability to be your patron. In a sense, I am cursed, not presentable for day to day society," he admitted, his voice brimming with self-loathing.

"Oh..." Christine took a moment to think on all of this. "Well... I thank you. For trusting me with your identity. So... are you not truly a baron?" She realized how that sounded and backtracked, "Oh my- not that... I mean that wouldn't matter if you were or weren't! I am just trying to understand," she finished weakly.

"No, I am. Money can pay for nearly anything, and I have plenty of that," He answered bluntly. "My face. That is disfigured, and you may not look upon it as long as we both live." He paused, his voice taking on an increasingly blunt and forceful tone. "Are we understood, Mlle. Daaé?"

She offered a small smile at his talk of the power of money, then sobered appropriately at the change of his tone. "I will do everything in my power to respect your wishes. It is the least I can do for you..." she paused and an awkward silence filled the air. "What...is it you want from me?" She asked carefully.

"For you to continue your training. In time, when I have assured that the opera house is safe for you, you will return," he said solemnly.

Christine nodded, confused and lost, but she trusted her teacher. And her admirer! Again she wondered why he send would her such opulent things without wanting sexual favors? And yet he had yet to even hint at it. Did she care? Did she want it? She vowed to truly pay attention to his actions and try to figure out this mysterious man!

Of course, being so deep in thought, she missed his gaze lingering over her, tearing over her figure. She did not notice how he had to force his eyes back to hers. "I have to admit...Christine...that I have been...fascinated with you since I've discovered you," he said, vaguely.

She flushed, feeling warmth run through her body. Perhaps there was a desire there... she would have to see. Perhaps if he did not take action she might try to prompt him... if she dared.

That being said, she was unwell enough to do no more than  
ruminate on such things as she lay in bed recovering.

"Let me get you some food, you must be famished, " he said, forcing a smile behind that mask. He was… confused… by her. She seemed so calm, so at ease with him, despite his strange visage. This young, elegant beauty who lay in the room he had prepared specifically for her.

She smiled warmly when he returned. The smile was at his presence, although Erik assumed it was for the food.

"Erik..." she breathed, still weak. "Thank you. For everything." She met his eyes without resistance.

An act such as that would scare a lonely hermit away to brood alone in his own room.

Days later, Christine was aching for a bath. A week of sweating and other unfortunate, embarrassing bodily expellings, she was ready to return from the dead.

Erik entered with a dose of medicine and she finally found the nerve to asked, "Erik... teacher..." for she had not addressed him or even  
spoken that much, "would it be possible… to clean up a bit? I am ready to rise."

Eric took a deep breath, swallowing as he set the medicine down. "Of course. I have that here, nearly… everything you could need here," he told her, motioning for her to follow him. "How are you feeling?" he asked, as he led her through the lair to an alcove which had a sunken pool in it, natural steam rising from it; a hot spring, of sorts, or at least that was how it appeared.

She looked at it in wonder. It didn't look like the murky lake she had seen in passing. The water was fresh, clear. And oh so inviting. She looked to him for confirmation, not even remembering his question.

He nodded, giving her a small smile. "I've spent considerable time making this place hospitable. It's one of the finer refuges in this city, I would wager," he explained, moving to a stack of towels he had neatly folded. "I have clothes for you that I believe will fit you quite well, if you would like to change."

She shook her head with a wondrous smile. "You really are a phantom, aren't you? Such magic... "

"I wouldn't suggest it to be so much magic as careful planning and execution." He offered her a reassuring smile. "There are so many secrets that I will share with you, in time."

A thrill ran up her spine at the words "in time." The idea that he wouldn't leave her gave her so much happiness, it surprised and confused her.

She stared at him, waiting for him to leave with a slight blush to her cheek,

He realized that he was lingering perhaps a bit too long to be appropriate and turned away. "I will get you fresh clothing. Please relax, enjoy your bath."

"Thank you," she whispered to his retreating back.

The shift she wore nearly peeled off of her and the rank odor that came off of it made Christine wonder how Erik would ever want to be in the same room with her again! She stepped into the steaming pool and groaned loudly. It was divine! She had never had a bath this warm, this luxurious. She felt like a queen.

She noticed floral scented soaps placed to the side. She took her time scrubbing the sickness off of her and even more time caring for her tumultuous, neglected hair. She didn't even notice that she was humming.

He returned, carrying a simple, yet elegant dress, complete with the proper undergarments for her to be fully dressed as a lady of her day. He found himself lingering, stealing a gaze at her as she bathed, realizing it was highly inappropriate yet unable to help himself.

"Is the water alright?"

She squealed, splashing water as she spun toward him, sinking deeper into the clear water.

"It's- it's wonderful. I've never had anything like this before." She felt her blush run down her neck and lower, below the water.

She was hidden by the water from the neck down. He smiled at that, hanging the dress on a nearby hook and laying the undergarments on the table. "I am glad you are enjoying it.." he lingered slightly, his gaze hovering over her.

"I...I should leave you be." He murmured, below his breath.

Oh, how her treacherous body reacted to his velvet voice! She sunk even lower, her chin brushing the water. She bit her lip and nodded.

As he watched that lip be bitten, he stayed; his hands subtly clenching into fists as he struggled with the desire to join her. At that moment, he would turn away, self loathing settling over him as he moved away, retreating from her.

Christine's thoughts embarrassed her. It was improper. He had done absolutely nothing to indicate that he had romantic- or even lustful - feelings toward her and yet she was panting after him like a young school girl. She was a young school girl, she amended. She was his student and she was crushing over a figure of authority. That was it, she decided.

Christine rose out of the pool and carefully stepped onto the rocky floor. She stood there nude for a moment, reveling in the indecent freedom of being completely stripped bare. Even at home, she was encouraged to only clean sections of her body at a time to prevent full nudity. But she couldn't help it; it felt amazing.

There were so many mirrors, so many reflective surfaces, whether it was the water or a bit of glass, or a polished bit of stone. When she lingered, Erik saw; his gaze locked on her; studying every inch of her. How he wanted to take her, touch her; taste her, explore every bit of her. He couldn't pull his gaze away, no matter how inappropriate it was.

She didn't feel his eyes on her. Not really. But some sort of awareness must have washed over her, Causing her to shiver. She took her time drying her body with the towel provided for her, compelled to move slowly and sensually.

She was a dancer. One from an impoverished background. She knew the ways of the world and the ways of men and women. She herself was not a maiden, although she had never experienced That "little death" the other girls talked about. Her experiences were uncomfortable, forced. It was the viscount himself who took her virginity. A spry fifteen year old rich boy cornering the thirteen year old daughter of the occasional entertainment in a back hallway, bullying her until she submitted. She was glad he did not remember her.

The other time was when she was starving- before coming to the conservatoire. Her father had just died and she had just arrived in Paris with nothing but the rags on her back. One does what one must on the streets.

With these thoughts and the lingering desire she felt for her teacher's presence, Christine dressed in the fashionable and undoubtedly expensive dress left for her.

He watched her dress, behind the mirror; each layer complimenting itself perfectly. Finally, when she had covered herself completely, he re-entered the room. "Do you feel better, Christine?" He asked. "That dress...You are beautiful," he said simply.

She flushed at the compliment. Providing a small curtsy of gratitude, she responded, "thank you, teacher, you have very good taste. It is a beautiful dress. And I feel so much more human now. Weak, a little nauseated, but I feel alive again," she grinned and shrugged, wrapping her arms about herself.

"Good. I feel that you will be back to yourself soon. Now that I know you are healing steadily, I can take the steps needed to make the opera house safe for you once more." He said, offering a faintly grim smile.

"What does that mean?" she had a sinking feeling that what he was implying would be something she didn't truly want to hear.

"There are people who are no longer welcome at the Palais. I will have to remove them," he said firmly, not giving any more explanation than that.

She chose not to pursue this line of questioning. She would rather not know if something unhonorable was happening. She would smartly prefer to remain in ignorance.

Christine bid Erik a goodnight -- she had no way of knowing what time it actually was, but she was feeling worn -- and retreated back to her bedroom to sleep away her fears.


	14. Chapter 14

~o~

~~~~Chapter 14~~~~

~o~

 _How many sleepless nights, I have longed for you? How long I have struggled in my anguish! how many times have I prayed to heaven for that pity which now you ask from me! But in spite of all this, have I ever known a moment's peace without you? - Un Ballo in Maschera, Verdi_

The next time Christine awoke, she felt even better. She still had no idea what time of day it was and how long she had been there. She briefly worried over the people who would miss her, then realized there were not many people above to miss her at all. She redonned the blue dress and exited the bedroom in search of her teacher.

When she saw him, he was making his way through the main room of the lair as he saw her approach. He held in his hand what looked to be a length of thin rope. "Ah, my child, I have just returned. You slept well?"

She blinked obviously at the rope, but smartly declined to comment. "Very well, thank you Monsieur."

"Good. The theatre will soon be safe to return to." He said simply, not letting anything on. He was about to walk by, before he paused, speaking.

"It is time, I think, for a lesson. To see how your voice has faired following this ordeal."

Christine was nervous, strangely, at the idea. She had a horrible thought that her voice would no longer please him and she could think of nothing worse in the world.

"Of course," she whispered.

He smiled as he turned, leading her to a part of the lair with a large piano in it. "Good. Let us begin." He said, offering her a smile as he began to play, demonstrating the first warm up, then prompting her to sing.

At first nothing came out. When she did begin to vocalize, the sound was weak, breathy. She stopped in frustration, angry at herself.

He smiled patiently at her. "Relax, take your time. Now, like this." He said, switching from open mouthed exercises to lip trills and humming, gentle exercises to establish the patterns which had allowed her voice to blossom so.

She was still holding back. She wasn't breathing right. Was it fear or had she damaged something? She started hyperventilating at the thought, becoming visibly distressed.

He stood and crossed to her, and without asking, placed a hand on her abdomen, feeling the tight boning of the corset. "Forgive me the impropriety of this, but I need you to remove the corset, only for now," he insisted gently. Nothing was damaged, he knew that; it was simply a manner of convincing her.

She gasped a bit at his touch but didn't pull away. "The dress would not fit me if I loosened the corset," she whispered.

He sighed at that. "I do not mean to be indecent, but you need to reestablish the release that you had before the incident, with your breath. As a result, you cannot be constricted in that corset. Not for the entire lesson, just for a few exercises," he assured, trying to keep his tone professional.

She bit her lip and lowered her eyes. She turned to a wall, walking toward a table while unbuttoning her blouse. She stripped it off with only a small bit of hesitation and placed it carefully onto the table. Her blue skirt clashed with the corset and shift covering her bosom, but she was able to reach behind her and attempt to loosen the ties.

Eric took a step towards her, his hands moving in to unlace the corset from behind. "Please know that I would never seek to use our relationship to take advantage of you.." He explained loosening the corset, but letting her decide to remove it.

Why did she feel like crying when he admitted that? It did confirm that her crush was unprofessional and unrequited, so she swallowed the lump in her throat and decided rashly to take the entire corset off completely, although it was unnecessary to do so. She had to undo her skirts as well to take the corset off. The slip she wore underneath was gorgeous. Richly made - of course a present only Eric would give. She straightened and turned to him with her chin high.

He was not expecting that, and he looked at her in that sheath. He remembered now just how elegant it was, and how her curves filled out the dress quite tightly. There was sheer fabric at the top of her bust, and his gaze would be drawn to that. With a bit more rough and commanding a grasp than he had intended, he pulled her towards him, his hands near where her intercostals were.

"Breathe into my hands," he murmured, holding her to him tightly.

Oh, she was breathing alright. Her heart thudded against her chest and the heat of his hands burned into her belly. She tried to comply, breathing deeply into his hands, but her nerves made it shallow, unsure.

To force the point, he would push at her mid back, the hand tracing down to her lower back. "Bend over," He instructed, placing his hands on either side of her hips, in the hollow of her side. "Breathe into this...Just like that..Good" he instructed, subtly massaging with his thumbs.

"Ah... "Her eyes were wide as she complied. She felt so indecent. Like she was presenting herself to him like a dog in heat. She tried to keep those thoughts at bay as she did as was asked.

A hand would trace up her back to her shoulder, pulling her firmly up. "There. Now..." he played a five note scale with one hand while keeping her tight against him with the other.

"Lip trills, breathing into my hands between each one."

She began shivering, overwhelmed by his body so close to hers. However, her breath began to return to her and she opened up, her voice began opening up

He felt her shivering, and he paused the exercise for a moment. "Are you afraid, Christine?" He asked, unable to pull his hand away, actually putting the second hand on her hip. Those hands would spin her, slowly, to face her.

She looked up into his nearly glowing eyes. She was close enough to smell his masculine scent and it made her almost lightheaded. Her breathing became erratic again and she backed away. "No, I'm not afraid...but I think I need to sit down." Her legs all but collapsed beneath her when she found a chair.

He let her sit, frowning, thinking that her strength had not fully recovered from the tragedy. "Of course...we will break here," He said, not realizing that it was he who caused her state.

"Thank you, teacher," she breathed, not looking up at him. "I'm sorry for my weakness."

Erik shook his head. "Nonsense. you have suffered greatly." He spoke, pulling a chair closer to hers. He'd reach; taking her hand, flipping it over checking her pulse. "Your heart is racing..." He spoke, just barely beginning to put two and two together.

"I think I must have over-exerted myself." she mumbled.

Erik pulled his hand back, realizing that he had been touching her quite frequently, and that she was not recoiling at all from her. He would stand, taking a few steps away. "You should rest then. I would hate for you to revert from the progress you have made over the last few days."

She nodded and almost bolted to the safety of her room. She had never felt this before and she wondered if it was an aftereffect of the poison. She lay down in her bed, in only her shift and petticoats. Her heart was not slowing down and the heat in her belly grew and spread lower. Christine rubbed her knees together, in a strange sort of agony.

Erik followed her, stopping in the doorway, watching her lay back like that; seeing her writhing subtly in bed. It reminded him of women that he had been with, full of desire and need. As he began to realize she was so affected, he would force himself to keep his gaze down. Even if she desired him, he could never indulge her in that...It was too dangerous. She would reject him when she saw and understood his true nature.

Christine didn't know that he followed her. If she had, she would have been mortified! However, as it was, she was lost in her own thoughts and pressed the palm of her hand against the fabric of the petticoat at the mound of her sex.

Erik watched, guiltily. Leaning hard against the door frame, he watched, tormented by his desire for her, knowing all the while just how forbidden she as for him.

Christine bit her lip and bucked up a few times into her hand. She did not stray farther, but enjoyed the sensation for a few minutes before rolling over, her back to the door, attempting to fall asleep

He would pull away, returning to his room; sleeping, poorly.

~o~

The next few days passed with a lingering sexual tension. She studied, she lived with him; eating, bathing, sleeping. She touched him far more than he was used to, or was even comfortable with. Finally, after the second day of this, he could take it no more. He waited for her to retire for the night, and finally would retreat into his room. He disrobed, and began to satisfy himself, making low groans as he did this.

Not too far away, Christine heard a small groan, followed by another. She was in her room, reading a book on theatrical diction, waiting for her body to feel drowsy enough for sleep. However, the unexpected noise had her rising from her bed and exploring.

It was coming from Erik's bedroom. Her heart stuttered for a moment as she thought something might be wrong. However, the groans came infrequently and did not grow in urgency. She slowly padded to the curtain to the entrance of his room. A louder grunt prompted her to peek descretely behind it. What she saw had her rearing back in shock. He had not seen her and was continuing his ministrations, so Christine walked back to where the curtain had parted and snuck another peek.

He was reclined in bed, nude. He was well built, clearly having to take care of most of the physical work and maintenance of the lair himself. He was also hard, throbbing even, sizable without being comical. The mask, of course, as still on. He was stroking himself, writhing faintly, the groans becoming more frantic as he approached his climax. Finally, he would explode, moaning out a word; a name.

"Ch...Christine..." He gasped, as white fluid coated his hand and body as he finished.

She gasped and flew back once more. He was breathtakingly gorgeous. She of course had seen nude men before, but never someone she was attracted to and she had never seen one pleasure themself. She quietly ran back to her room, trying to calm her heart.

The next morning Christine woke up with a new sense of purpose. She had heard him speak her name. There was no denying it. He wanted her too. She'd just have to show him that his advances would not be ignored.


	15. Chapter 15

_AN: apologies for the delay! RL can be a needy mistress._

 _Away over there you'd follow me, if you loved me! There you'd not be dependent on anyone...The open sky, the wandering life, the whole wide world your domain; for law your own free will, and above all, that intoxicating thing: Freedom! Freedom! - Carmen, Bizet_

-o-

\- Chapter 15 -

-o-

The next morning Christine woke up with a new sense of purpose. She had heard him speak her name while in the midst of passion. There was no denying it. He wanted her too... She'd just have to show him that his advances would not be ignored.

When Erik saw Christine the next morning, he smiled at her as if nothing was different. "Good morning, I trust that you slept well?" He asked, poking his head into her room nearly first thing that morning.

She smiled sleepily at him. "I did, thank you teacher." her voice was thick and husky from sleep.

He entered the room, as he set out another dress for her; elegant, fitting perfectly. "I'll let you dress," He said, moving to leave as he watched her once more. "We will continue your lessons today."

She smiled and nodded. When she rose to dress, she pouted a bit when she saw the garment. It was a beautiful brown with gold highlights, but the cuffs were long and the neckline pinched right below her chin.

She counteracted this by not bothering this time with a corset and left her hair down in a wild wave. Walking into the main cavern, she approached him like a good student, and stood waiting, hands folded in front of her.

Erik watched her as she approached. She looked different, the dress laying differently on her; her hair wild and falling free about him. Narrowing his gaze, he began to play the intro to her warm ups, taking her through them.

She stood close to his side as he played. his shoulder would be about the height of her breasts. Were she to bend even a bit, she would be able to brush her chest against him.

Erik turned and he would notice her breasts brushing against him. She was so close, he could smell her, and it was an intoxicating scent. They sang, going through exercise after exercise, a low tension coursing through them.

Slowly, she felt the strength of her lungs return. The feeling of power, of strength in her body.

Erik paused in the exercises. "This is good. You are returning to where you were; you'll be ready to return in no time...Which I must admit, I will miss as I have been enjoying your company."

She didn't understand what he meant, at first. Then she realized he was talking of returning to the surface. Of course. How silly. Of course she would return. Why did that make her so unhappy then?

Erik gave her the slightest smile as he moved on with more exercises. Finally, they would come to a conclusion. "Well, I think that is great progress for today," he said, seeming a bit distracted. It was her, the thought of her leaving troubling him more than he would like to admit.

However, Christine took his expression as disappointment or disinterest in her, so she began to retreat to her room, emotion full and plain on her face.

Erik watched her retreat then impulsively stopped her. "Christine..I...I was wondering if you would like to have dinner with me?" he asked, his voice surprisingly nervous.

Christine stopped and turned to him with wide eyes. "Of course, teacher. I would be honored."

He smiled at that, nodding. "Good. Then I will see you later for that. I have preparations to make," he informed her.

"I will have a dress for the evening waiting for you here in an hour."

It was the longest few hours of Christine's life. She ran to the hot pool to bathe heavily with scented soap and scrambled to find instruments to put her hair into something proper. By the time she returned from the bath, a dress was waiting for her, far more ornate than the one she wore this morning - and, notably - more low cut. It was a blue you would only see staring into the ocean. Dark lace sleeves ended at her elbow. The neckline was cut in a complimentary square, which pushed her breasts together attractively. The skirt was pleated and voluminous.

Christine paced, she pinched her cheeks to redden them. Finally, after a lifetime, she heard movement outside of her door.

When she opened the door to her bedroom, she found Erik wearing a formal tuxedo and his hair immaculately combed. The stark white of his mask stood out like an intentional ornament. His presentation was both effortless and formal. Christine nearly melted.

He turned to face her directly and offered her a gloved hand, with which he drew her to him with. The glove seemed to make it easier to touch her; less afraid that she would recoil.

"You look beautiful...Christine," he commented, eyeing her; his gaze sweeping over her form.

"Thank you, teacher. You look very elegant as well." She smiled. Her heart was beating so fast, it was a wonder she could hear through the pounding. Obediently, she followed her teacher through a complex maze of tunnels and canals.

Surprisingly, Christine found herself above ground, outside of the Opera House. No, he had a place for her; and would lead her through the streets of Paris, taking back alleyways and shortcuts to remain in the shadows. Finally, he would lead her to an opulent restaurant, leading her through the back entrance. When they entered, everyone seemed to know exactly who he was and where he was to dine, all greeting him with private nods and knowing smiles. The couple was taken towards a small, private corner, an intimate curtained dining nook, away from the eyes of any prying customers.

Christine had never been in a restaurant so grand! The most she has been in were dingy saloons that attempted affluence but succeeded only in looking gaudy. No, this restaurant with its rich red velvet seats and crisp white tablecloths was completely foreign to her.

She clumsily allowed the martre'd to seat her and she blushed as the man unfolded her napkin and laid it across her lap. Looking down at the table, her eyes widened. So much silverware! How would one possibly know which one to use!

Erik watched her wide eyes take in the silverware options. "Start with the outside, work your way in. That's the simplest way of navigating it," He offered her with a kind smile. Christine blushed even deeper.

A menu was set in front of her and a wine order was made, Erik ordering a white wine to begin with for the appetizers.

Looking at the menu, Christine wanted to ask if it was in another language. She did not understand any of the words on the page! To stall, she took a large sip of sparkling wine and almost choked on it- surprised at the sweetness and carbonation.

"I have not been here before. What would you recommend?" She asked Erik, trying to cover her ignorance

He gave her a slightly knowing look and smiled. "Mlle. Daaé; what are some of your favorite foods? Tell me that and I will make recommendations." The waiter drew the curtains behind him as he left, affording them privacy.

Oh god, Christine was going to die of embarrassment if she kept this up. "I...don't think I've gotten to choose what was to eat since childhood." She still _was_ a child, she thought with a bit of self-deprecation. " When I was still in Sweden, I remember the most delicious fish…" she offered.

"Fish. Of course, he offered with a smile. "There will be a fish course. Do you trust me, Mlle. Daaé?" He asked, watching her with an intriguing look as he took a sip of his wine, holding her gaze.

"Completely," she answered automatically, not shying away from his intense eyes. The air was heady, tense and she felt as if she would drown.

The waiter returned, breaking the tension and refilled her wine without being asked. Christine vowed to find a different stalling tactic and go easier on the alcohol if her glass was going to refill every time she drank from it.

"I will order for you then," he replied and turned to the waiter. It was a multi course, formal meal that he was planning;a dn the conversation that he had with the waiter showed expertise and a well formed palate.

Her entire view of this mysterious man shifted over the night. Instead of the intimidating recluse, she found an intelligent gentleman with exquisite manners

When the appetizers came, she was still so deep in thought over this strange man, she jumped when a plate was put in front of her.

The plate was served to the right, oysters being the first course that was given to her. They were served on the half shell, with a sauce to the right and a lemon for garnish and seasoning. Erik let her take the first bite, curious as to how she enjoyed them.

On the other side of the table, Christine was frozen in place. Was she supposed to use one of the forks? Outside, work your way in. Right. She grabbed the outermost fork to the right of the plate and attempted to stab the flesh of the an oyster. Of course, the rest of the shell came right along with it. It hovered in the air for a moment, then clattered back onto the plate. Christine pursed her lips and looked up to the Phantom. "Pardon me, I'm not very good at this," she admitted with a blush.

Erik picked up his utensils and showed her how she could scoop the oyster from underneath, then put it in his mouth, following it with a sip of wine. "There, like that," he said, watching her.

She followed his lead and successfully the oyster in her mouth. The flavor was tart and rich and more than Christine was used to. She followed it with the wine and even more colors exploded on her tongue. It was phenomenal and she closed her eyes in near ecstasy.

"I think it is time, soon, for you to return. I am excited to see your career flourish, Christine."

Christine's eyes slowly opened when Erik spoke. She tried to keep the emotion -whatever emotion that was- from showing on her face. "You will.. continue to tutor me, yes?" She hoped she didn't sound too pathetically hopeful.

He smiled as he watched her enjoy the oyster. "Yes, of course I will tutor you..I couldn't imagine giving that up," he said a bit more vulnerable than perhaps he would have liked to have let on. "This next season they are to produce La Traviata. I feel that Violetta would be a marvelous role for you."

"La traviata! You think I am ready for such a role?" Her stomach flipped almost as violently as anytime Erik looked at her.

He nodded, grinning. "Of course. If Marguerite fits you so well, it only makes sense that Violetta would be in your wheelhouse. Don't you think so?"

It was such a huge, beloved opera! If she were to botch the role, she would be booed off stage! "I trust your judgement, but I'm a little stunned at your confidence in me. T-thank you, I mean," she fumbled. "It is all due to you that I am here at all."

"That is not entirely true, Christine. Your voice, that is why you are where you are. You have simply allowed me to draw it out of you. If anyone should be grateful for the opportunity, it is me. It is a rare treat that a teacher can work with such a prodigy," he complimented, taking a sip of his wine.

Honestly, how many times could Christine blush in one night! It couldn't be healthy for a young girl!

The soup arrived next and Christine was able to find the correct spoon with no difficulty - it was the only spoon in the line. The soup was cold and strange to her, but she dutifully picked at it. If the amount of utensils were any indication, she would not starve this night and coming across as a glutton would not suit her at all!

The fish was next, with a fresh selection of wine. When it was all laid out on the table, Erik raised his glass in a toast. "To your success..and our partnership."

She raised her new glass of wine and smiled. "Our partnership." She sipped the wine and looked down at the plate of sea bass. "Surströmming!" She exclaimed with surprise. "How on earth-" She stopped and looked up at the handsome man before her. "Thank you," she whispered with emotion.

He had taken a gamble that she would have enjoyed the traditional Swedish dish, and it paid off. It was native to her homeland. As a result, his face lit up; his smile was broad as he soaked in her reaction. "You know this? It was a good choice then, Mlle. Daaé?"

She smiled knowingly at Erik. "It was a staple from my childhood. I've missed this."

"Then I'm glad you enjoy it." As he watched her, taking in her beauty, her grace, the simple joy that she had; he felt his heart stir. Erik knew that having her away from him would be a dreaded day indeed, though return she must to the surface. He took in a slow breath, savoring this moment with her.

"I am going to miss your presence when you return to the surface," he admitted, his gaze dropping slightly.

Christine shrugged inelegantly. "Maybe….we can continue our lessons down here?" Her voice was unsure, tentative. "You are my," she blushed a bit, "patron, after all, at least in name. It would not be...unusual for me to spend nights away from the conservatoire as long as it does not impede rehearsals." Oh god, did she really just say that?

Erik's lips twisted into a slow, approving smile.

Her heart stuttered. Warmth spread throughout her body. He was truly beautiful when he smiled. Instead of groveling at his feet or jumping onto his person like she so desired to, she placed her hands onto her chest, in a gesture of reverence. "Thank you, teacher. You've been so kind to me. You've already done more for me than anyone ever has. You've saved my life."

He held her gaze, nodding subtly. "I do not do these things to impress you. I do these things so that you may know that I care for you...in...many ways." He explained, second guessing himself at the end.

Her mouth opened to respond, but the waiter returned with a salad course, saving them from the awkward conversation.

After the salad, both warm and cold dessert courses were next. It was getting a little ridiculous, but Christine was happy to have something to do other than say something embarrassing to her teacher. Sticking to lighter conversations, Christine spent the rest of the meal enjoying the company as her corset slowly became tighter and tighter.

On Erik's end, he found Christine's conversation to be sparkling, witty, and crystal clear. As the dinner wound on he found himself utterly satisfied, nearly equally with the wonderful food and perfect company. The moment she suggested using his alter ego The Baron as her alibi, he felt as if she had accepted his proposal of marriage. She _wanted_ to be here! He vowed not to do anything rash or thoughtless.

The end of the night was just as lovely as the meal. Christine found herself sad to leave the beautiful restaurant.

As they would stand to leave, he would lead her through alleyways and hidden, secret paths; taking her back all the way to the lair. "Soon you should return, but I will let you chose. Did you wish to spend one final night here before returning home, Mlle. Daaé?"

Oh, how the timber of his voice made her quake. She knew he meant it innocently, but her body reacted as if he asked her straight to his bed!

Blushing furiously, she nodded. "It would be easier to sleep here for the night before returning, I think..."

"Of course...then you can return in the morning. They'll discover you. You'll tell them that you woke up in your apartment, remembering nothing," he explained, turning and walking toward a small cabinet; a crystal decanter filled with brandy and several small crystal glasses sitting on it. He would pour both of them a drink, offering one to her.

"Then let us enjoy tonight. How would you like to spend it?" he asked, taking a sip.

There had been pairings of wine with every meal. She was already light and giddy on her feet, but she accepted the brandy to be polite. "I would like to hear you sing, if I may. "

"Hear me sing?" he asked, surprised at her response as he walked toward an immaculately cleaned, gorgeously designed organ. "Why would you want that?" he asked, sitting at it.

"I have never heard you sing, not truly. But you have the most beautiful voice- please. For me." Christine followed him to the large instrument and stood beside him.

He caressed the keys and played an echoing minor chord, nodding. "Very well, then. Tell me, Mlle. Daaé; what would you like to hear?"

"Anything you sing would be a blessing to witness," she whispered, eyes locked on his fingers caressing the piano keys.

He would interrupt her, smiling. "I have just the piece." He murmured as he began the heavily chromatic opening portion of the aria he was to sing. The tension in it built before settling into a gentle, pleasant, D Flat major key. The general feel of it was haunting coming from an organ.

"La fleur que tu m'avais jetée,

Dans ma prison m'était restée.

Flétrie et séche, cette fleur

Gardait toujours sa douce odeur;"

Translation

" _The flower that you had thrown me,_

 _I kept with me in prison._

 _Withered and dry, the flower_

 _Still kept its sweet smell;"_

The Flower Song. Carmen. Don Jose. A song sung to a mocking lover to convince her of his devotion to her. The piece naturally was wrought with desperation, ardency, passion.

The first note that Erik sung echoed off of the stone walls and sent chills down Christine's arms.

Traditionally, the F natural of the " _La"_ was floated; the opening phrasing being lyrical and sweet, allowing for a powerful build through the later chromatically rising sequence. Yet when Erik would sing it, it would be full; present. Commanding. His voice was darker, richer than a traditional _lyric_ _tenor_. Rather, it would have an edge to his tone; a cut that would easily conquer a larger orchestra. As she listened and inevitably attempted to classify him, she might settle on the larger, more heroic voice; as the Italians might say, a _lyrico spinto_ or even a _tenore dramatico_ 's sound. The tone, though dark; was brilliant and pharyngeal, clearly Italianate in nature. This became more apparent as he progressed through the aria.

"Et pendant des heures entiéres,

Sur mes yeux, fermant mes paupières,

De cette odeur je m'enivrais

Et dans la nuit je te voyais!"

Translation:

" _And for hours,_

 _On my eyes, my eyelids closed,_

 _I became intoxicated by its fragrance_

 _And in the night I saw you!"_

The vocal line rose, and so did his passion. The declamation was true to the intent of the text: passionate, loving, full of desire for her. The first high note of the piece blossomed with a brilliance that captured the adoration of the man who sang it and the man in the opera who he was portraying. The A Flat of the " _m'envrais"_ lept out, hanging in the air only to decrescendo in a tender manner, Erik releasing onto the " _Et dans la nuit…"_

"Je me prenais à te maudire,

À te détester, à me dire :

Pourquoi faut-il que le destin

L'ait mise là sur mon chemin?"

Translation

 _"I began to curse you,_

 _and hating you, I began to tell myself:_

 _Why should fate_ _put you on my path?"_

He sang this with an urgency to his declamation; truly embodying a man who was trying to convince a lover of his devotion swiftly and with no delay. His interpretation hinted at the agony and torment that he was about to express.

"Puis je m'accusais de blasphème,

Et je ne sentais en moi-même,

Je ne sentais qu'un seul déisr,

Un seul désir, un seul espoir:

Te revoir, ô Carmen, ou,

te revoir!"

Translation

" _Then I accused myself of blasphemy,_

 _And I felt within myself,_

 _I only felt but one desire,_

 _One desire, one hope:_

 _To see you again, Carmen, oh,_

 _you again!"_

The chromatic ascending vocal line gave Erik the vehicle he needed for his interpretation. What began as a soft but intense singing would grow in intensity. In a moment of virtuosic showing, Erik swelled the organ with his line, the tension through " _Un seul désir, un seul espoir:"_ anxiety inducing before it finally released, the high A-flat of " _Te revoir"_ ringing and reverberating off of the cavernous interior.

"Car tu n'avais eu qu'à paraître,

Qu'a jeter un regard sur moin

Pour t'emperer de tout mon être,

Ô ma Carmen!

Et j'étais une chose à toi

Carmen, je t'aime!"

Translation:

" _For all you needed was to be there,_

 _to share one glance with you_

 _To long for you with all my being,_

 _O my Carmen_

 _And I was yours_

 _Carmen, I love you!"_

The line would descend, each high note explosive, only to retreat. It was as if the corporal had finally gotten out of his head and was thinking with clear, honest, fearless, devotion for her.

The final phrase was taken traditionally, which might have shocked her. For someone who had taken such a demanding interpretation of the aria, the ending was tender and floated. The final High B-Flat of " _je t'aime!"_ was tender, floated; the high pinging sound filling the cavern.

Erik finished the piece looking straight at - almost through - Christine. He had chosen a song sung by a man desperate to show her how much he loved her on the eve of him leaving her.

 _One could only hope that the ending would be far less lethal,_ Christine thought.

"Why Don Jose?" She could only ask in a soft voice that displayed her awe. He'd be able to hypnotize her completely if he tried!

He rose from his organ console, turning to face her, reaching for his brandy and taking a sip as he explained, "In order to understand Don Jose, one must realize that the man has a past; he has a history. One does not join the _Légion étrangère_ without reason. The man knows trauma; he knows longing and pain. As a result, the singer must understand true desire; he must have walked that thin edge of control before. Simply putting it, the singer must be as dangerous as the character. And he must know true longing."

She didn't see how that answered her question at all, but she could tell what he was saying, whatever it meant, was important to him.

He looked down, searching for more free, honest words to describe. "I guess what I was trying to say is that there is no way to sing that final phrase without truly meaning it. You don't have to love your _Carmen_ , but there must be a Carmen in your life for you to love with such fearless abandon. I don't believe there has been a tenor who has sang that convincingly who didn't feel such emotions himself."

"Ah," Christine commented with her eyes averted. Her face was flushed - such a common occurrence when around this man! - and her mind worked to analyze his words. Was he...expressing his love? To her? To someone else? Was he just making a point or did his words hold some deeper meaning? She decided there was only one way to find out.

Christine took to the age-old teenage habit of jumping in head first.

She looked up to his face, catching his golden eyes. "And must the Carmen have such a love?" she whispered.

He gave her a sad smile. "The tragedy of the story is that Carmen's true love is freedom. She loves that more than anything else. Unfortunately for her, José is a dangerous man who's love borderlines on obsessive. Nothing but complete devotion to him will satisfy him, and that leads to tragedy in the final act."

Christine swallowed her fear and stepped even closer to him. She didn't think she had ever willingly been this close to a man before, let alone her teacher! She was so close, she had to crank her neck to look at his face and clench her fists to keep from reaching out and touching him.

"But is Carmen not lost in the passion herself? Perhaps it is a different intensity of affection, but she is pulled by him as well, is she not?"

"She is," he said, meeting her gaze, pulled in by the conversation. The fact that it was about a field that he was so passionate about made him light up, not realizing in that moment just how close his muse was.

"She obsessed over him, as well, in a public setting. The wonderful quintet in act two. She publicly declares, much to the frustration of her renegade compatriots, that she is in love like never before, and that she simply cannot join them on their latest scheme." As he finished that, he paused, realizing then just how close she was. He grew stiff, almost rigid, afraid to let his muscles reach or touch or even explore the space around him. "That passion, along with his, led to tragedy," he reminded, the tone more for himself than her.

"But without it, there wouldn't be an opera at all," Christine said softly. Intimately. She was growing bolder, finding her courage. Almost imperceptibly, she leaned in closer to him.

"Art is always worth making, even when the ending of the story is not what you would hope it to be," he replied to her, fixing his gaze on hers. She was so close; he could smell her. She naturally smelled like rose, and that floral tone intoxicated him. He was hardly breathing, terrified that even too strong an inhalation would make him brush against her skin and ruin the illusion that she was not close to a wretched, walking corpse.

"Yes. It's worth all of this," she breathed. She licked her lips nervously. One second passed before she struck like a waiting viper.

The kiss was chaste but eager. Lasting only a moment, she pulled back before he could react and blushed furiously, keeping her eyes down to her shoes. She bit her lip, waiting for his response.

Erik was frozen. She had just kissed him. Christine would be able to feel every muscle in his body go rigid.. This woman to whom he had no right to claim someone as charming and beautiful and clever as him had just kissed him. His mind was flooded, and he found that he could only simply utter her name in response. "Christine.."

When Erik leaned his body toward her, she immediately responded in kind. She stepped forward to close what little distance where was left between them and practically attacked his lips with her own. Her arms flew up and she reached to grab both sides of his head to deepen the kiss. Unfortunately, her left hand knocked his mask off kilter, shifting it so it was already halfway off of his face.

Time stood still.

 _She tried to reach for his mask? Did she? The little mynx! To get him to this moment, only to try and reveal his identity._ Erik snapped and a hand shot up, full of all the tension that had been coursing through him before that point. "What...do you think you are doing?" His voice was pained, his grip on her hand hard and unrelenting as he turned his face away from her.

Christine gasped loudly as she felt the iron grip on her wrist pull her away from him. She watched him quickly adjust his mask. "I- I- I'm sorry!" she cried, not understanding what had set him off. She cried out as he shook her by the wrist painfully. "I'm sorry!" she repeated with tears thick in her throat.

"Was it your intent this entire time to humiliate me? To give me hope for your affection only to reveal my wickedness and cast me away?" He snarled at her, that once tender gaze now turning vicious and spiteful. He would release her hand, shoving it away from him, taking a step back. "Tell me now! Was that your game all along!?"

"I- no! I mean, yes I wanted to… but… oh God, I'm so sorry!" Christine stumbled back, mortified at how terribly wrong this all went. She shrunk back from his anger and quickly wiped the tears from her cheeks.

"Your sorrow matters little in this moment. What you did..the betrayal..." He turned away to more securely fasten the mask.

In those fleeting moments of him turning, Christine saw a glimpse of a face that was disfigured beyond comfortable conversation. Burn marks, perhaps, or illness. Those cheekbones that should have been made for an actor proved a merciless landscape that too little skin stretched agonizingly across. The skin was angry, raw, with open sores from where the mask constantly rubbed. He had suffered greatly, and suffered still.

"I didn't mean to-" she tried to get out, but he wouldn't let her finish.

"Why would I believe that for a second?" Rage was coursing through him, preventing him from thinking clearly.

Christine's whole body shook as she backed away from him. It wasn't fear, not really, but seeing Erik this upset made her chest burn.

"Because I… I just wanted to…I'm sorry!" She turned and ran from him, upset and ashamed of the pain she had so unwittingly and yet so easily caused him. She locked herself in her room and threw herself on the bed, curling in on herself and weeping loudly.

After Christine had locked herself in her room, Erik began to cool. He fixed the mask back into place and paced like a caged animal, unsure of what to do with himself.

No. This was the inevitable ending of things. She would, one way or another, discover who he truly was. When she discovered that, how could she be able to look at him the same way, just knowing what a monster he was? He stepped toward her door; resting one hand on it, not daring to allow himself to get any closer to this muse which he had no business claiming. And there he stayed.

Christine could feel him on the other side of the door. With as much courage as she could muster, she rose and walked to the room's entrance and unlocked the door, pushing it open to reveal the striking form of The Phantom, basked in shadows. His cat eyes nearly glowed as he looked upon her.

"I believe it is time to leave, Mlle. Daae. I will show you how to return to the surface safely." With that, he turned and walked away, leaving Christine to gather her things.

She could not discern what he was thinking or feeling through his stoic expression and expressionless voice. She had the horrible feeling that she had completely shattered their relationship and that nothing would be the same ever again.

Christine continued crying softly as she hugged her bag of fine dresses and accessories that had been gifted to her. The Phantom did not speak to her again as he lead her back through dark tunnels, trick walls, and even a black lake, still and cold as the dead.

She was left alone on the other side of her dressing room's mirror where she collapsed and let out an anguished, sorrowful scream.

The trip back had been agonizingly long for Erik. Still, this is what must happen. It was for her own good, her own safety. The feelings that he was feeling for her..It was enough to give her the opportunity to see him as he truly was. No, this was for the best: Isolation for him. A career for her. Because, damn it, no matter how hard he tried, he knew that he would never let her go, that her voice would forever ring in her ear.

As Christine sobbed on the other side of the mirror, so did he on the opposite side, sinking down, losing himself. He pulled the mask off of his face, sobbing as he gazed down at the porcelain prison that he wore. In a moment of rage he roared, smashing it to the ground before standing and stalking back to his lair.


	16. Chapter 16

An: thank you all for the kind reviews!

There is a scene in this chapter that will seem a bit out of nowhere and admittedly is disjointed with the rest of the story- however, it is a scene that ties in with a companion piece that we have already written and will post eventually, so we decided to keep it in here. :)

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He Lover Me; He Is Here

-o- 

" _And weeks pass, and months pass; time runs dry. Still I ache down to the core. My broken soul can't be alive and whole, 'til I hear you sing once more." - Love Never Dies, Andrew Lloyd Weber_

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Chapter 16

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The following evening, Christine was in her usual practice room, waiting with bated breath, but her teacher did not show. Nor did Erik show the next day, nor the day after that. After ten days of waiting, Christine finally gave up and did not visit the practice room again.

Her voice did not suffer too much for it, but her heart did and it showed in her singing. Beautiful, yet hollow, people called it.

Faust closed and was heralded as a tremendous success. La Traviata was to open in less than a week and Christine, as planned, would sing as Violetta, the lead. After a handful of rather large, violent scenes, Carlotta was taken to Germany to sing in a small, unhaunted opera house and Christine was left in peace.

Christine pinched her eyes closed as an arm wrapped around her waist. She looked up into beautiful blue eyes and forced a grin. Raoul de Chaney smiled back and gave her a quick squeeze.

"Don't be late tonight for the cabaret! I'll have a seat waiting for you."

"Of course, Raoul. I'll be there soon." Christine left the Dancer's Foyer without looking back and escaped to her dressing room, which was now truly hers to use. She washed off the sweat of the day's rehearsal in a mounted wash basin and signed deeply. Sitting down on the beautiful lounge provided for her, she stared at the wall and allowed her thoughts to buzz around her head.

Apparently the end of her lessons meant also an end to the Baron's interest and she had once again struggled to make ends meet, even with the rather substantial raise in position. De Chaney had been sure to be there to swoop in and take the position of her patron. It had only been a couple of weeks of courting, so Christine had yet to give herself to him, but she knew the pressure to do so would come soon and she dreaded that day.

She sighed heavily one more time before lifting herself from the cushions and preparing for a night of socializing with people she cared very little about.

The tragic, descending opening notes of Traviata fit the dark state of Erik's soul. Box five had turned from his hidden throne where he would watch his triumphs to his private torture chamber. There he sat, watching his protegé, his muse, sing alone. His heart told him that she was more than that, that she was the love of his life. The mask he wore - which a small interlude in Venice had rendered him a new one- reminded him otherwise: That he was not worthy of her. So he sat there, in box five; watching.

Waiting for Christine's entrance, Erik set his gaze upon the audience, unimpressed with what he saw; Aristocrats snubbing their noses at the bourgeoisie and the bourgeoisie mocking the stuffy aristocrats. Across the way, along the opposing rows of boxes, his eyes stopped on the one reserved for the de Chaneys. His stare turned deathly as he watched the arrogant young fop enter the box like he owned the entire Palaise.

Erik growled, but turned his gaze away. RIght onto a surprisingly familiar face. One box down from the Viscount sat a brilliantly gorgeous woman with pale blue eyes and a dark mane of curls dressed prettily around her head. It took a moment for Erik to identify the expensively dressed woman.

Colette!

That whore he had a business relationship with! What on earth was she doing here? He would have to find out. During intermission, he would investigate, but the curtain was now opening and Erik would die before missing Christine's entrance.

Erik's torment was compounded as Christine began her act one aria. "Sempre Libre" she sang; cherishing her freedom. This became a mockery as he watched the man who now lorded himself over Christine sit across the theatre in a box, nearly leaning out; making himself visible to the stage. This proud young peacock was revelling in the attention she was giving him. A few boxes down was his marionette who had never looked as stunning. And never looking so unlike Christine. It made Erik furious.

During the first intermission, Erik was out of his seat and stalking his prostitute. He had never seen her smile and for some reason, her happiness cut him like a knife. How dare she smile! How dare she be anything at all other than a fellow bottom-feeder stagnating in her own unhappiness? He snuck behind the wall of the box she was currently sitting in and Erik nearly struck out with his punjab lasso at the sight of her laughing and kissing her companion. Her John. But it was obvious this man was more than just a customer. This man was head over heels in love with Colette and as their kisses evolved into something more intimate, Erik knew she was likewise in love. With another growl, Erik returned to his box to keep from murdering them both.

Erik barely made it through the opera. He would have to visit Colette and put her in her place. Erik was angry and heartbroken and lonely and he knew just the thing to do to dull his pain.

That night, Erik visited the whorehouse. The receptionist politely told him that she was booked through tomorrow morning. Erik gave a dark smile and would purchase the twenty four hours following that. She would be his as soon as she returned, and he promised to take out his pain and desire and torment on her before she, too, was out of his grasp. He would not leave until his skin was stained with her tears.

The weeks wore on. Time ran dry. Traviatta opened and closed. Christine, of course, was offered contracts that if she would accept them would take her far from this place: Vienna. Milan. Rome. His bird would fly before he even knew it. Away from him.

Christine was soaring through her career as the newest Prima Donna of Paris, yet she felt nothing at all. She no longer felt that ecstasy while singing, knowing someone special was listening to her bear her heart for only him. She no longer yearned for the stage the way someone yearns for breath. There was no point anymore. Raoul's advances were becoming more insistent and the idea of leaving the Opera to be a pretty little Vicomtesse was becoming less and less vile to her.

"Perhaps we might persuade you, Mlle. Daaé, to grace us with a final gift before you depart for Milan," Andre offered as Christine sat in his office, having just informed him that she had accepted a contract with Teatro alla Scala to sing Violetta once more.

Raoul stood behind her, leaning against the doorframe with an annoyed look on his face. She didn't need to be doing more travelling, or more singing for that matter. It was a trifling hobby to him, and one that stood in the way of her true purpose; which of course was marrying him and having his children.

"Would you consider singing a recital; a farewell concert, as it were? After all, you came to wing within these very walls. It would be a fitting send off before we let you fly loose into the wide world." Andre offered, smiling a bit sadly at her. Truthfully, she had been wonderful for the company and she would be sorely missed.

Christine looked back at Raoul, noted his expression and turned back with a scrunched brow. She was silent for a minute, debating with herself. She knew she could never resist this stage, though, as much as she would try. So she nodded, smiling at Andre. "It would be an honor, Monsieur."

Raoul rolled his eyes, but remained silent; he would be patient with his inevitable bride.

Andre nearly shouted with delight. "Excellent! We will start the publicity right away!"

Erik had kept his distance from Christine, as promised to himself, but he still made it a habit to see and hear everything that went on in his Opera House. He had to. She deserved more than the life he could give her, and so he watched from afar. She was growing close to the Viscount. What a waste of talent and grace on a man who would be more suited for a simple wife content staying at home raising his children.

A Recital. That would be challenging for her without guidance. Still, she would get none from him. Truly, it was for her own good above anything else. Erik had to keep reminding himself that. He pressed his hand to the wall, a mere five feet away from his Christine, then disappeared into the darkness

The idea of a recital did much to spark some life back into the soprano. She began practicing her technique in earnest and spent hours over scores finding the perfect pieces to perform. Meg found her the perfect dress for the performance, which of course Raoul paid for. A week after the decision was made, Christine had sent a huge pile of music to the accompaniment - far too much to sing in one evening, but her excitement kept her from being able to choose which to cut.

Erik watched her every move and guided her, despite his better judgements. His actions were subtle. Carefully rearranging her pile of music to have a more favorable piece that would suit her better on the to or removing them completely. It was agonizing for him not to step in, reveal himself but he kept telling himself that this was for the best; for both of them. Still, he couldn't help but put his little touches on her work.

Three weeks passed and posters were glued up around the city: La Christine would be singing a farewell recital for one day only! Tickets sold out within hours.

The scenery of the upcoming opera was pushed aside and a single grand piano was brought onto the stage. It was the evening before the performance, and Christine was beginning her final run through. The songs she ultimately had chosen were perfect. The accompanist was excellent and familiar. The electric lights were changed and ready to illuminate the beautiful soprano.

But Christine sang robotically. Going through the pieces quickly, she ran through the concert and bid the theatre a good night as she all but fled the premises, leaving the small group of people confused and worried.

"Do you think she will come through with this? She has been inconsistent and unreliable as of late," Firmin whispered to Andre.

"Do not worry, Firmin. She has not failed us yet. And if she does, well, she'll be in Milan before ticket sales crash and married to the Viscount not long after that. He's an uncompromising man. He won't let her travel the world singing," He said with a touch of sadness in his voice.

"Yes, it will be a pity when we lose her. Such a promise for a wonderful career...only to be over far too soon."

The Opera Ghost listened to this from the rafters, his stomach churning and his heart tied in knots. The night before him would be a sleepless one.

The recital of La Christine was packed with aristocrats and bourgeois alike, all in their finest clothes and best behavior. Tonight, they shared in their grief that they would be losing a beloved star to the Italians. Nothing brought the French closer together than artistic usurping from Italy.

Christine's dress was the color and pattern of a preening peacock, making her porcelain skin even paler and her blue eyes to sparkle like sapphires. Her hair was artfully piled on top of her head and sprinkled with peacock feathers and diamonds. She looked every bit the Diva she was.

Aside from the worried frown on her face.

"Oh Christine, don't be scared! You'll knock their garters off!" Meg told her as they were preparing backstage.

"Meg!" Christine chidded, but appreciated the attempt to calm her nerves.

Knock their garters off, indeed, or so Erik hoped. The Opera Ghost was dressed in his finery as well and currently lingered in the shadows near his muse. He longed to comfort her, soothe her; help her find the center that she needed to find before walking out onstage. No, he could not. Or so he continued to tell himself. This was for the best...that narrative growing old and tired, even to him now.

Meg bid Christine a dancer's good luck, "Merde!", and zipped off to find her seat. Christine envied her friend's energy and wished she could have half of it to get her through this night.

The lights dimmed in the house and the audience hushed. The curtain rose and Christine walked onto the stage. Thunderous applause greeted her and she was forced to curtsy three times before the audience finally quieted.

The recital began lightly. Art songs, mainly; all intended to ease the singer into a comfortable place before moving into deeper, heavier territory with the arias that would come later. If Christine could see past the lights of the stage, she'd notice the Viscounte looking decidedly bored. The atmosphere was different than during an opera. With less spectacle and greater intimacy, such distractions that normally occupied an audience were unacceptable in this setting, leading to a bored patron.

If she truly looked hard enough, she might even see the shadow that lurked in box five, the figure nearly blending in with the inky darkness of the unlit box.

Christine's voice carried through the theatre like ringing bells, yet she sang for only one person. She stared straight into the shadows of box five as she sang, imagining she could see the glowing eyes of her teacher. She sang with all of her heart, willing for him to accept her unspoken apology through the words and music she offered.

The crowd ate up every moment of it and when the last floating notes of The Queen of the Night aria left her lips, the cacophony of applause was nearly deafening. Christine stood there, watching for any movement in the box, but saw none. She swallowed her hurt and turned back to the audience, curtsying deeply. For her last aria of the night, she was to reprise Margarite in The Jewel Song, but as the audience finally began to calm down, a desperate thought ran through her head.

Bravely, Christine raised a hand to her accompanist, halting the introduction of her next song. The entire theatre was so quiet, she'd be able to hear a pin drop in the balcony. In the silence, she looked out into the audience, then pointedly turned her head to box five. Without introduction, Christine opened her mouth and began to sing.

"Ah, leave me not to pine

Alone and desolate;"

She paused, listening to her voice echo through the hall.

"No fate seemed fair as mine,

No happiness so great!"

The frantic pianist finally caught on and began playing the accompaniment.

"And Nature, day by day,

Has sung in accents clear

This joyous roundelay,

He loves thee – he is here.

Fal, la, la, la, Fal, la, la, la."

Her voice had never sounded more pure. She poured her entire soul into her words as she looked up into the shadowed box. The song was from Pirates of Penzance, an english comedic farce that was more suited for laughter and joviality. Yet this one heartbreakingly beautiful duet was one of her favorites ever since one night in the underground lair when Erik tried to teach Christine English diction. It was one of the few times he had every actually sang with her, and she cherished the memory.

"He loves thee – he is here.

Fal, la, la, Fal, la!"

There was a pregnant pause. This was where the tenor was to come in. She waited on bated breath, hoping against all hope that he would pick up where she left off.

The accompanist paused, waiting, as the heavy silence grew.

Finally, the purest voice the opera house had ever heard cut through the air, caressing every listening ear.

"Ah, must I leave thee here

In endless night to dream,

Where joy is dark and drear,

And sorrow all supreme –

Where nature, day by day,

Will sing, in altered tone,

This weary roundelay,

"He loves thee – he is gone.

Fal, la, la, la, Fal, la, la, la.

He loves thee – he is gone."

Tears dripped down Christine's face as she began singing with the voice in perfect harmony.

"Fal, la, la, Fal, la….."

The audience was left speechless, unable to move lest someone break the magic spell cast about the room. Finally, tentatively, someone in the balcony began to applaud. The rush of clapping and yelling that followed was powerful enough to knock down walls, but not enough to draw Christine's gaze from box five.

Finally, after a heart-wrenchingly long moment, Christine saw a figure rise in box five. It stepped forward, the glow from the candlelight below him illuminating him faintly. It was the Opera Ghost. He lingered there, his catlike gaze locked on her before he turned, disappearing into the shadows.

The Viscount stood, applauding half heartedly. He looked shocked. What she had sung, how she had sung it, how she had been answered; there were so many questions that needed answering. He, too, rose, making his way out of the box where he was seated.

Christine denied the audience their encore and instead rushed to her dressing room, her blue skirts billowing behind her like a preening peacock. She fumbled with the door knob before pushing herself into the dark, empty room. She stood there, hearing only her breathing, completely alone.

"Teacher?" She looked around frantically. "Erik?" She screamed to the walls.

In the silence, she heard the lock click behind her. The room was dark and foreboding in this moment. She frantically crossed to a light switch, flipping it on.

As the dim lights of the room flickered to life, she would see that she was not alone. Erik was present with her, seeming to stand behind the ornate full length mirror that adorned one of the corners of her room.

"That was quite the performance tonight, Mlle. Daaé," he said, his voice hollow behind the glass. He was dressed elegantly; a tuxedo with a half cape, the red lining of the cape visible, providing a striking contrast with the black fabric and the stark whiteness of his mask.

Christine's heart pounded in her chest and she looked upon her teacher with longing and gratitude. "Oh, Erik," she whispered. "Please forgive me."

"Christine. I...It is I who should be asking forgiveness." He stammered, pressing his hand on the backside of the mirror. It would swing open, revealing a false door. One could only imagine how often he might have watched her from this vantage point. The thought made Christine blush.

"Come with me. The Viscount...your suitor...He will be here soon and I must speak with you...away from him," he urged, a faintly possessive growl to his tone.

Christine ran to the false door without hesitation and stepped into the darkness. The mirror swung closed right as the doorknob to the dressing room rattled violently. A moment later, the door was kicked open by Raoul who bounded in with fire in his eyes.

Christine watched Raoul look around and let out a deep growl that turned into a frustrated yell. Her mouth popped open as she watched the Viscount pick up a chair and throw it across the room before stalking out through the busted door, not bothering to close it.

She turned to Erik with a furrowed brow.

Erik, admittedly, had a self satisfied smirk on his face as he would motion for her to follow him, falling silent as they walked. When they were a safe distance away, he spoke.

"Your beloved has quite the way about him," he commented, an edge of...good natured teasing? Creeping into his voice.

Christine jerked back. "He is a patron, that is all," she said in irritation. "One that I would not need to have had some Baron not disappeared into thin air." The thought of Erik thinking that she loved Raoul made her more angry than anything else.

He would lead her to the gondola that he had taken her across the underground lake with once more, pausing there. He offered her his hand, lingering there as her hand met his. "Christine...I missed you. My reaction was foolish...and childish," he murmured, his cat like gaze meeting hers behind his mask.

Christine met his eyes fearlessly as she stepped onto the boat and sat. "I never meant to betray your trust. I am so sorry I ….attacked you like that. It was...inappropriate." The word was thick and unwilling on her lips. She scared her teacher away and for that, she would never forgive herself, but she didn't regret trying to kiss him.

He would step in, after her, guiding them through the cavern with an expert's touch. "You did no such thing. It was I who reacted so poorly...I reacted like a monster." He paused, fixing his gaze away from her before continuing.

"And now you know that a monster is truly what I am," he said gravely, referring to the glimpse of his face which she saw.

She stared at the black water, silent, as Erik pushed the boat through the lake.

When the boat docked on the other side, Christine accepted Erik's hand to help her out of the boat. With her feet on the gravel, she reached out impulsively to grab Erik's arm.

"You are not a monster, nor did you do anything wrong. I frightened you and I am sorry for it, but please do not blame yourself," Christine said gently. "You've done so many things for me. You've saved my life multiple times over." She stepped closer, looking up into his masked face and slowly lifted her hand. She moved hesitantly, allowing him time to deny her.

Erik stood there, frozen. His heart raced in his chest and he began to fight the urge to stop her from doing what she was going to do. Instead, he swallowed hard, allowing her to proceed.

When he didn't move, Christine raised her right hand to his uncovered face, gently caressing his smooth jaw.

Erik swallowed once more. He shut his eyes and gave her a small, subtle nod. A hand reached to touch her side, almost as if bracing himself.

She brought the other hand up to spread over the mask, cupping his jaw. When he did not move, she slipped her fingertips inside of the mask and gently began to raise it from his face, allowing him time to react.

What would be revealed was a face that looked as if it had been burnt badly; or perhaps born defected. There was simply too little skin for so much face. Muscles and tendons were nearly visible under the thin skin. The skin itself looked red and irritated and an open boil burned on his cheek.

It took Erik everything to not panic at that moment. His hands would trace over her sides, losing their grip a bit as he calmed himself. His eyes squeezed shut. He was sweating, waiting desperately for her screams.

What he found instead was a velvet warmth press against his lips.

Christine's first response was to freeze. A swell of pity rose in her throat but she swallowed it down, knowing it would be resented. He looked so sad, like he was confident of what her next move would be. It broke her heart. She did the only thing that came to her. She leaned in and gently kissed him.


	17. Chapter 17

AN: Thank you all for your continued reviews! Warning: This scene has some no-punches-pulled smut in it. A few have asked about the Colette scene in the last chapter - I am tossing around the idea of posting the companion piece, in which case, that is the scene which intersects the two stories.

-o-

 _The arrow is no swifter in bringing death,_

 _Than is your lover to fly into your arms!_

 _Ah! respond to my tenderness!_

 _Fill me with ecstasy!_

 _~Camille Saint-Saëns, Samson et Delilah_

-o-

Chapter 17

-o-

His eyes shot open and he grew tense in her arms. No woman had kissed him without that mask. He didn't know how to respond, what to do, what to say. Finally, the desire and adoration that had been building in him since the moment he saw her overtook him like a tidal wave; and he melted into that kiss deeply.

Christine felt his lips relax and she deepened the kiss, wrapping her arms around his neck. She felt him shaking and held him tighter, moaning into his mouth. She poured all of her love into him, feeling lightheaded and euphoric.

His lips parted as he deepened the kiss, his arms wrapping about her with desperation. A growl travelled between his mouth and hers as their tongues danced.

Christine finally broke the kiss, staring into his golden eyes. His beautiful, perfect golden eyes. She felt light as a feather; if Erik let go, she would topple to the ground. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it, realizing she did not know what to say.

"Christine.." Erik whispered. He held her tightly, as if terrified to let her go. In fact, he doubled down by bending slightly, scooping her off of her feet and into his arms easily, taking her into his lair. "I don't know what to say…" He murmured, unable to take his eyes off of her, setting her down.

She laughed, "Nor do I!" Her courage left her then, and Christine suddenly felt very shy. Blushing, she walked from the man and deeper into the furnished lair, her hand wringing in anxiety.

He'd follow her, the searing kiss lingering on his lips. Watching her carry the mask with her. She was so beautiful, so radiant after this night's performance. She was his student, much younger than him, but his heart burned for so much more than that...Forbidden thoughts that ached within him.

As Christine walked, she ran her fingers down the cheek of the porcelain mask, tracing its contours. her heart was beating furiously as she turned and smiled, looking straight into his perfect, beautiful eyes. She raised her arm and hesitantly offered Erik his mask.

He would take it, looking at it slowly. "Do you desire for me to put it on once more?" He asked, his gaze remaining level with hers once more.

Christine shook her head. "Not if you don't wish to; It's your mask, you should be able to choose whether or not to wear it."

"I wish to make you comfortable," he replied, not being at such a self-accepting level yet. He would turn away, then looked through the curtains to his bedroom; his gaze falling to the bed, his mind beginning to think truly forbidden thoughts as he turned back to Christine, the mask now fully in place.

"Oh, don't put it on, on my account!," Christine urged when he began to redon the mask.

Eric turned to face her. "That was the first time that I have taken the mask off and not been mocked. Forgive me...It is hard to be without it." He stood there in that doorway, as if silently beckoning for her to come to him.

Christine followed without hesitation. She didn't know how to analyze what had just happened. On one hand, she was sad that he put the mask on because of chronic mockery, but on the other….it covered the only thing on his body that wasn't perfect. With the mask on, he was simply beautiful. Christine felt a wave of shame course through her body for thinking that, but it was the truth.

"Your suitor is no doubt looking for you right now," he murmured as she drew near him.. Heavens, how he wanted her; sinfully desired her in that moment. It had been too long since he had seen her, heard her sing, and now all of that rushed to the surface.

Christine made a face. "Raoul is an unhappy man. He has been searching for his place for a long time and makes everyone miserable around him doing it."

She shook her head. "I…

Wouldn't want to presume or impose… but if … _you_ were to be my patron again...I would never have to see him again. And I would be happier for it."

"It would give me great pleasure to become your patron. And not just because I wish to see him out of your life," he murmured. With that, he would place a hand on her cheek, caressing it softly. It would be so inappropriate...or expected..for him to press this relationship with her but he could not deny himself this one touch.

Christine's smile was stunning. She turned her head and watched the two of them in the mirror. Curious, she walked away from Eric, approaching the shining silver. "So many mirrors for a man who thinks himself a monster… are they all fake?"

"Surprisingly not. I never wish to be caught by surprise," he replied, taking a step closer to her from behind, gazing at the two of them. His heart turned a bit, as if liking the portrait they made. He reached forward , leaning into her, causing her to gasp in surprise, but his hand moved passed her to a music box perched on the vanity. He opened the lid gently and a haunting melody danced in the air. "I have lived my entire life in the darkness. It heightens each sensation. Christine…. Just for tonight… turn your face away from the unfeeling light of above. Listen to the music. Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams and you'll live as you've never lived before. Leave all thoughts of the world you knew before, let your soul take you where you long to go. Only then can you belong to me." He wrapped his arm across her chest, resting against her shoulders in a protective hug. He inhaled deeply. "Such sweet intoxication."

They watched themselves sway naturally to the melody, silent for a moment.

"Touch me," He whispered and almost on command, Christine's hand rose to touch the side of his face, caressing the cool material of the mask, " Trust me, my muse. You alone can make my music fly…" His hand rose to shadow hers, hovering over her delicate skin. Slowly, his hand descended upon hers and he took his time to lower their hands, dragging them down her shoulder, brushing against the side of her breast and moved all the way down to her waist.

Christine shivered. Her unblinking doe eyes followed their hand's path like she was hypnotized. When his hand reached her waist, she abandoned the mirror and turned her head to the side, looking up into his feral eyes.

Their eyes locked. This time it was Erik's turn to initiate the kiss. Leaning in, his lips brushed hers slowly, deepening with each kiss, his eyes shutting as his passion consumed him.

She met each kiss with one of her own. She let his hands trail over stomach as she turned to face him. Raising onto her toes, she wrapped her arms around his neck. She could feel the quick staccato beat of his heart as her chest pressed into his.

Erik sighed as he eventually broke the kiss, caressing her cheek, his breath coming quickly as he held her there. His voice was intense as he spoke to her. "I need you..I must take you," he growled, an edge to his voice, lust and obsession mixing.

"Please," she whimpered, gripping onto his lapels and pulling him to the bed. "I need you!" Her shyness all but forgotten, she sat on the bed and pulled his tall form over her.

He moved over her, his lips meeting hers again deeply. He lay her back, his form pressing against her. He craved her, and desired to feel more of her beauty. A curse would escape his lips when he felt the bonding of the corset, and this caused him to pull back, removing his own jacket and searching over her dress to free her bound form.

Christine smiled at his frustration and arched her back to help guide his hands to the stays in her dress. She let him undress her, wanting his hands on her body for as long as possible.

He kneeled on the edge of the bed, unlacing straps where he found them, actually taking care to not tear the dress in his eagerness. There were so many damned layers! It only served to make him more feral, unable to keep his lips off of hers, or her cheek, or neck, in the process.

Her dress stripped off, Christine could feel Erik's fingers dip and tease underneath her corset. She rolled over and presented the ties to her corset to him, stretching her body long, her arms reaching over her head.

Erik moved with practice skill. "Christine...I've wanted you for so long," he growled as he pulled at the stiff material. He didn't want it off; he _needed_ it off. Now.

It was all but ripped off of her body. She felt his hands run down her nude back. She turned around, facing Erik, needing to kiss him again.

He obliged that need, meeting her lips with a deep and growing passion. He pulled back, nearly tearing the bowtie from his neck, working at his tuxedo shirt, the metal studs clattering to the floor.

Christine reached out to help him tear his shirt from his body. She ran her hands down his muscled chest, scraping her nails over his nipples and down the flat plane of his abdomen.

He lowered his lips to her neck, then lower, sinking down over her full breasts as he teased her, lavishing attention on her skin.

Christine's hands slid back up his body to his hair, mindful of the mask, gripping tightly as his mouth worked her body. Her back arched and her hair fell out of its ribbons, spreading curls on the bed like a halo.

Erik's hands drifted further south, finally landing on her bloomers, shifting them lower and lower.

Christine helped wiggle out of the last of her clothes and impatiently grabbed at Erik's pants, clawing at the buttons clumsily.

He pulled off his shoes. His pants came off. Soon he was just as nude as her. Catlike eyes were glued to her, and his length was throbbing; pulsing with desire for his Christine.

She shivered as he looked at her. The anticipation was nearly painful. She backed up on the bed to give him room and he moved over her, kneeling before her. He took in her petite, short, curvaceous frame. "Christine...I.." he gasped, hands running up her legs, over her hips.

She didn't let him finish. Instead, she attacked his lips with her own, pulling him down on top of her. Her legs wrapped around his waist as she gripped at the back of his neck, pulling him closer, pressing her body into his. He kissed her deeply, climbing over her. His hips shifted as he felt himself teasing against her folds. He shivered, the anticipation of this moment nearly too much for him. He thrust, groaning as he slipped into her, his body finally joining with her.

She gasped loudly and threw her head back as he entered her. Panting, she moved her hips slightly, feeling him stretch her flesh and fill her completely. This was so different from the other times! Yes, she has not retained her maidenhood, but she had never actually _wanted, needed_ intercourse the way she did now. It felt like she was about to burst in the most heavenly of ways.

Tears leaked from her eyes as she pinched them shut. She met his slow thrusts with jerky, impatient ones, completely taken over with desire and whatever patience he had had fled from him swiftly. He began thrusting more intently, hard, a hand gripping her hip, another shifting down to her breast as he rose up slightly more onto his knees. This brought Christine's bottom off of the bed, deepening the angle, bringing a cry to her lips. The sounds of their skin slapping against each other only made Christine more frenzied, more wonton, as she returned each thrust in full.

And it was inevitable. Christine opened her eyes and the feral look in Erik's drove her over the edge. Screaming, she clutched to him as the waves of her orgasm washed through her,

leaving her trembling in his arms.

When she began to come down, he slowed his thrusting a fine layer of sweat forming over him. Still, he was not satisfied, and he held her by the hips as he rolled over, Drawing her body on top of his, mounting him.

She was breathless, but the feel of him inside of her as she straddled him quickly gave her her second wind. She pressed her hands on his chest and rolled her hips, drawing an impassioned cry from him.

He gasped her name, and as she glanced down, she noticed that his mask would have shifted in the tumbling, revealing slivers of his scarred face. So lost was he in his passion that he did not notice it.

But Christine indeed noticed the mask slipping, revealing a jagged lip and red, irritated skin and she smiled down at him, thinking him beautiful.

Hands raked up her sides, to her breasts; his hips rising to meet her. Suddenly, he'd switch his grip, his hands lowering to her ass, allowing him to thrust freely, wildly. He felt himself tighten, his climax building. Erik felt the world fall away as he orgasmed in her. Moaning her name, he shook and then collapsed on top of her.

They stayed that way for a few minutes, breathing heavily, neither one willing to part yet.

Finally he carefully shifted so they fell onto their sides, still holding one another.

"Christine..."

His mask was still askew, but Christine didn't have the heart to tell him otherwise.

She smiled an exhausted, lazy smile to him. "Erik…" she whispered back.

"I don't think lll ever let you return to the surface." He growled a bit possessively, still buried inside of her as they laid there.

"I may not leave whether you want it or not," she joked lightly. She felt him grow soft within her and felt him slip out, but still neither of them moved.

Minutes, or hours, or lifetimes later, a sudden flash of movement broke the scene and suddenly Christine's vision was filled with the smushed, black face of a long-haired Persian Cat.

Christine blinked at the animal and it blinked back at her, curiously. "You have a cat?" She asked in disbelief.

"Ayesha, get down," Erik scolded the animal. "Yes, and she's in your face," he growled, though he didn't have the heart to pull the cat away. "She is good company, though not quite the same as having you here."

As they lay there, he finally grew aware that his mask was off of his face. Quickly, he reached up to fix it back into place. A few moments would pass in blissful silence before he spoke.

"You saw me...the mask...it moved..and you did not recoil even when we were joined as we were.."

Christine finally rolled away, onto her stomach to look at him. She studied him for a moment before shifting once more, sitting up and bending her knee to show him an ugly scar racing up the inside of her thigh. "I'm not perfect either," she said simply.

Eric traced a hand over that scar, slowly studying it. "How did you get that?"

Christine remained quiet for a moment. "A boy I once knew. In the country. He was the son of an aristocrat and terribly spoiled. He liked to rough house with the staff, whether they were ready to fight back or not…" she trailed off for a moment, staring into nothing. "He pushed me down a hill once, in the woods. I was badly scratched up and my leg was nearly ripped open by tree branches. I was lucky not to have gotten a deadly infection."

Erik frowned. "I'm sorry to hear that. Pathetic little boys do not deserve such treasures as you. It is good that you are away from the country and such silliness." He leaned in to kiss her shoulder tenderly as he spoke. "Still, I don't think that your scars are as disfiguring, Christine...yours does not make you a monster."

"Perhaps not as severe, but am I less human for having it?"

"No, not at all." He responded, simply, pulling back to meet her gaze.

"So then, monsieur, would this be called a double standard or hypocrisy?" She smiled playfully and kissed the tip of his mask's nose.

He gave her a wry smirk and kissed her cheek. "It would be comparing pond to an ocean," he responded, adding "but I understand your point."

"Water under the bridge," she joked.

Ayesha let out a soft cry, butting her head against Christine's hand. Christine barked a laugh and pet the fluffy animal. "Erik, why haven't I seen Ayesha before? I've practically lived down here for weeks!"

"She is a cat. They are wonders at hiding. Besides, she comes and goes as she pleases. We've been easy companions...well, for years," he explained, petting the animal.

"Fitting, with your eyes, I suppose." She studied his yellow irises for a moment. "Do you see as well as cats can in the dark?" she asked curiously, tilting her head.

"I don't know if it is because I have lived in darkness for most of my life or because of my eyes. But, yes, I can see better in the dark. Sometimes bright sunlight is even a little bit sensitive to me."

She shook her head with an unbelieving smile. "You're truly special, Erik." With one more caress his his face, Christine rolled to sit up, then inhaled sharply. Blushing a bit, she murmured, "I should clean up in the bathroom."

"Of course," he said, sitting up as well. "It's around the corner there… in case you forgot," He replied. She rose to go and he watched her, admiring every inch of her perfect body.

After she returned from cleaning up, she found a gorgeous white lace robe waiting on the bed for her. Erik was nowhere to be seen, but Christine smiled as she fingered the expensive material. Pulling it on and tying it tightly about her waist, she drew back the curtain barrier that acted as a door and padded her way to the main chamber.

He was wearing a dark oriental robe and was in the process of crossing toward her. He kissed her softly. "Stay with me tonight, Christine," he asked, tracing his hands over her sides.

"Of course," she crooned, leaning into his touch. She smirked slyly and and yanked the tie from about his waist, pulling him closer while simultaneously undoing his robe. She pulled him back into the bedroom as the robe fell from his shoulders.

When Erik woke, he felt a body pressed into him. Not just any body. Christine's form. An arm was cradling her head, his other arm resting on the flare of her hip. He felt her stir against him. He responded by tracing soft kisses against her shoulder and neck, the stubble of the morning teasing her skin.

Christine shivered and relaxed at his touch, the hazey confusion of sleep leaving her, being replaced with a feeling of safety and contentment. After a few more minutes of staying in this cocoon of bliss, Christine shifted and rolled onto her stomach, her nude chest reacting to the sudden coolness of the air. She looked up into Erik's eyes and smiled.

His eyes were fixed to her chest, but quickly raised and he leaned over to find her lips, kissing them softly. "Good morning. You slept well, I hope?" he asked, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face.

She hummed in contentment and snuggled into him more closely. "I thought it was a dream," she said softly, "A wonderful, wonderful dream."

"No, it isn't a dream. Though of course the downside is that I do not have anything for breakfast for you. Last night was... unexpected...A welcome surprise." He traced more kisses along her jaw, loving every moment with her and Christine relaxed with a contented purr.

"I don't normally eat breakfast. I am usually rushing to rehearsal-" her eyes popped open in alarm. "Rehearsal! I promised Monsieur Andre that I would come to rehearsal to say goodbye to the chorus—" she stopped dead, her mouth frozen in a petrified 'o'. "I… am supposed to leave for Italy in a fortnight."

He kissed her once more before pulling back. "Then I suppose we should get you back to the surface before they begin to look for you," he offered with a soft, slightly sad, smile. He paused, adding. "I have contacts in Italy. I can see that you are well cared for when you are away.."

She dropped her eyes and nodded reluctantly. "Thank you for this, Erik. For everything. I lo-" She stopped and renewed her smile for him. "I appreciate everything you have done."

He nodded at that. "I...am grateful that we have been able to set things right. Things were not as they should be without you in my life," he replied tenderly.

She kissed him once more and rose to dress in a fresh gown - go _odness, just how many_ _dresses does this man own? I've never seen the same one twice!_ She thought to herself.

Reluctantly, Christine announced that she was ready to return to the surface so she could catch the second half of rehearsal.

In truth, Eric had been preparing - far more than fantasizing - about this day for quite some time. He led her to the surface, returning her right to the mirror he had taken her from. "Christine...If you ever wish to see me...Simply call for me in front of this mirror, and I will be there." He murmured quietly, reluctant to let her go.

Christine paused in the passageway, halfway in reality, halfway in eternal night. She looked back at him with a smile in her eyes. "You best keep your ears open, then."

He granted her one final kiss, lingering there, before he stepped back. "Until then, Mlle. Daaé."


	18. Chapter 18

**_The vengeance of Hell boils in my heart,_**

 ** _Death and despair flame about me!_**

 ** _If Sarastro does not through you feel the pain of death,_**

 ** _Then you will be my daughter nevermore._**

 ** _Disowned may you be forever,_**

 ** _Abandoned may you be forever,_**

 ** _Destroyed be forever_**

 ** _All the bonds of nature, if not through you_**

 ** _Sarastro becomes deathly pale!_**

 ** _Hear, Gods of Revenge, Hear a mother's oath!_**

 ** _~Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart_**

 **~~~Chapter 18~~~**

 **Almost immediately, Christine wished she could turn around and waltz right back through the mirror. The first thing she found upon leaving her room was Raoul leaning against the wall with arms crossed and fire in his eyes.**

 **"** **Well, are you going to explain yourself, Mlle. Daaé?" he asked, standing up straight as she wearily approached. His body was blocking her way down the hall, forcing her to stop in her tracks.**

 **She eyed him wearily. "Excuse me, Monsieur, I'm not sure what you mean."**

 **"** **You have a triumph of an evening that ends in the strangest duet I've ever heard. You retreat to your dressing room, only to never be seen for the rest of the night. Yet, here you are; in a fresh dress. Please,** ** _do tell_** **, who was the magnificent tenor who accompanied you last night?"**

 **"** **You must be mistaken, Raoul. I went straight to bed last night after the performance." Christine cocked her head and clasped her hands together in front of her.**

 **At that moment, down the hall, the door to the main rehearsal room opened and the conductor stuck his head out. "AH! Mlle. Daae, thank goodness! We have a bit of a conundrum and you may save us all! Please…" he gestured for her to follow and then immediately disappeared again.**

 **Christine looked back to Raoul with an apologetic expression. "My apologies, Raoul, but I am needed. We probably should have a conversation soon...I'm sorry, but...I cannot accept your patronage any longer," She gave him a sad smile and slipped into the rehearsal room.**

 **Raoul blinked, trying to not let his disappointment show on his face. Instead, he squeezed his fists, a look of anger flashing into his eyes. "Yes, we shall have a conversation soon, indeed." With that he stalked off, leaving the empty hallway with a stilted gait.**

 **Louise, a lovely coloratura, was sitting in a wooden chair, obviously in a "delicate condition", crying her eyes out in front of the shocked chorus. She hugged her huge belly and bawled loudly.**

 **Christine's eyes were wide as she looked between the distraught girl, the choir master and the conductor. It was obvious why she was here. Their pleading eyes and the new diva out of commission…**

 **"** **...it would only be for two more weeks. It would not affect your travels," the choir master begged, looking apologetic.**

 **Christine guessed she had some coloratura to learn in twenty-four hours.**

 **The moment rehearsal ended, Christine rushed back to the dressing room and locked the door. She rushed to the mirror, touching it faintly. "Erik?" She called uncertainty.**

 **Just as he promised, his voice filled the room. She was able to place the source of it now, though, as it reverberated and resonated behind the mirror.**

 **"** **Mlle. Daaé; I was not expecting you so soon," he commented, an undeniable warmt in his voice.**

 **Christine smiled awkwardly and held up the score for The Magic Flute. "Our union as teacher and student apparently has not quite died. Care to teach me to be a coloratura?"**

 **"** **You have those capabilities," he reminded her. "I would not be teaching you any skills you don't already possess. The Queen of The Night?" With that he opened the mirror, revealing himself once more.**

 **She nearly melted when his tall form was revealed. She would never get over how striking this man was. How powerful. He could hold an entire room's will, bend it and control it like a master puppeteer.**

 **She nodded and entered the passageway, letting him close the mirror behind her.**

 **Again, they descended down to his lair. "You had an encounter this morning, did you not?" He asked, clearly referring to the angry Viscount she had bumped into.**

 **Christine sighed deeply. "Raoul has always been a bit...insistent… in getting his way. I wouldn't worry about him though."**

 **They spent the rest of afternoon studying Mozart…. With some frequent breaks to exchange lungfuls of air. Christine spent the night again and once more they woke in a state of bliss.**

 **The next evening, Christine found herself being slathered in grey and blue grease paint and wrapped head to toe in sheer taffeta and sparkling stars. A gigantic black wig was piled atop her head, decorated in jewels. She looked quite the imposing figure and she giggled at herself in the mirror.**

 **Christine heard a knock on her door. Pinning the last of her costume around her, she traveled to the door and opened it, her eyes still on her costume. "Yes?" she asked distractedly.**

 **Opening the door was her former suitor and patron, the Viscount, leaning a shoulder against the door frame. "Mlle. Daaé. I have been trying to find you to have that conversation you mentioned, but it would seem that you are quite a difficult lady to find these days," he commented, a dark edge to his voice.**

 **Christine swallowed her irritation. "My apologies,, monsieur. I have been very busy learning this role for tonight. I have been inaccessible. After the show, I can certainly meet with you. Now, if you excuse me, I must prepare." Christine knew that she was being a bit short, but the man was beginning to make her uncomfortable.**

 **Raoul, of course, didn't give a damn if he made her uncomfortable. He stepped in and locked the door behind him. "No," he said sharply. "I am not some toy for you to discard once you tire of it, Mlle. Daaé. Not after all the time, money, and effort I have spent on you, you insolent girl!" The edge to his voice grew sharp, uncompromising."Now, I demand to know the meaning of this outrage." He gave a long, pause, before adding dangerously, "and I dare you to try and avoid telling me again."**

 **Christine blew out air through pursed lips. This was perhaps the most inopportune time for this conversation. However, it looked as if there were no way to avoid it. She gestured for him to enter and turned to sit in one of the visiting chairs.**

 **"** **I thank you for all you have done for me, Raoul, I truly do. But I… received a better offer from a more musically inclined patron. To accept his patronage would give me endless opportunities for my career. And… Raoul, I could never give up the stage!"**

 **"** **You would chose the life of a singer over the life of a Viscountess?" He asked, shaking his head at her nerve. "Tell me, then, who is this lucky patron that has you so enthralled?"**

 **Christine was quiet for a moment. "The Baron d** **u Valance has returned. He wishes for me to be by his side. And I wish to be by his."**

 **"** **The Baron. Yes, him." Raoul murmured, rising to stand. "Very well. So be it. I will not trouble myself any longer over a woman who spreads her legs for every man that comes her way."**

 **An original line, Christine thought, but the look in his eyes made her second guess any sarcastic reply. Her blood ran cold, seeing for the first time the deadly amount of rage in his gaze.**

 **"** **We all knew who had you first." He growled, stalking out of the room, leaving Christine wide-eyed and afraid.**

 **The Magic Flute had always been a favorite amongst the Paris audiences, despite its lack of French origins. When the grandiose character of the Queen of The Night stepped onto the stage, the audience exploded in applause, stopping the opera for almost two minutes. The entire theatre was on the edge of their seats for Christine to sing the famous aria.**

 **Box Five was occupied, and for a change Christine could make out slightly more than just a shadow. Erik's figure sat, eagerly awaiting how she would do on this challenging aria with such short preparation. Christine had done wonderfully navigating the dialogue which was often the bane of non-native German speakers.**

 **One box across from Box five was notably empty. The Viscount was not to be found.**

 **Christine heard the introduction from the orchestra and fell completely into her role. The aria began perfectly, giving Christine the much needed boost of confidence. Her eyes locked on Box Five; she would be completely unaware of anything else around her.**

 **This laser focus would be unfortunate for her wellbeing in that moment, as she might have otherwise noticed a ruckus backstage. If she hadn't been so focused, she would have seen a figure in a grotesque, red- horned devil mask render a stagehand unconscious with a heavy leaded blackjack before taking a knife to the fly system. The figure worked quickly, cutting through the thick rope. First, the backdrop began to shudder, before crashing down behind her; sending some choristers who were making a crossing scattering to the side, cries of terror and fear interrupting the aria. Christine screamed and ran to the wings, but was thwarted as the curtain legs shuddered and heavy poles in which the hung on crashed down, causing several near misses for Mlle. Daaé.**

 **She was effectively trapped on the stage, surrounded by debris.**

 **Suddenly, the grand chandelier that hung so proudly in the center of the Palais Garnier shuddered and shook, only to swing wildly when a stabilizing eye-hook snapped free from the ceiling, falling to the floor and rendering some poor gentleman unconscious. This caused the chandelier to go careening towards the stage: center, specifically where Mlle. Daaé was standing. The maestro dove to the side just in time to avoid the brunt of the blow.**

 **Christine stood frozen, too shocked to scream. She watched the grand fixture swing toward her like a wrecking ball, and all she could do was desperately call out, "Erik!"**

 **When Christine looked to Box Five, she would see that it was empty. Erik moved like a shadow through the hallways which were rapidly approaching a state of panic. He'd come to the back stage and burst through the warning door and emerged into the wings. By this point, the other masked man was nowhere to be found. The chandelier was swinging wildly towards the frozen soprano.**

 **Erik jumped onto the stage, much to the shock and awe of those who were still in their seats, too petrified to move. He shoved Christine out of the way just as the chandelier came crashing down onto the stage. It struck Erik, flinging him backward, the debris landing to cover his body.**

 **"** **Erik!" Christine screamed with every bit of power her operatic voice could carry. She ran to the wreckage and fell to her knees, searching for him.**

 **His body had been spared the majority of the brunt of the blow by a narrow miss, anda sprawled Erik came to in a moment, dazed. "Follow me...we must get you out of here," he growled seeing Christine, staggering to his feet.**

 **Christine let big tears of relief trail down her cheeks as she rushed to him and hugged him around the waist tightly. "My God, I thought I lost you!"**

 **"** **You cannot kill an opera ghost," was the only reply as Erik pushed her away from the wreckage.**


	19. Chapter 19

-AN: I know this story is ridden with mistakes. I edited most of this on my phone, but I am back with a brand new laptop! So now I can go back and edit the previous chapters. However, that means for all of those following this story, you are going to get a bunch of annoying alerts as I reupload the chapters. So my deepest apologies, but it will make the story a little more readable.

Thank you so much for joining up for this wild ride! My husband and I had a blast transferring this into novel form and plan on editing our companion piece soon.

-o-

 _And the stars were shining and the earth was scented. The gate of the garden creaked and a footstep grazed the sand...Fragrant, she entered and fell into my arms. ~ Puccini, Tosca_

-o-

Chapter 19

-o-

Erik pulled Christine down a hallway, ducking into a small storage closet as he activated a false panel in the wall, sending them into the hidden interior of the theatre. "I don't know what is going on, but someone did this...to hurt you."

"Who would do this? Carlotta? Is she back from America?" Christine asked, breathless. Safely on the opposite side of the wall, she released his hand and braced herself against the wall, coughing from the exertion.

"No. She tried to harm you once and it did not go well for her." He growled as he led her, taking her hand through the narrow corridors. They could hear the sounds of pandemonium around them. Through the walls they heard echoes of a "red masked man" being seen cutting the ropes.

Her eyes grew wide as she looked up at him.

He fell quiet, listening in on a conversation between two dancers. He was a man, tall, with a red devil mask. They saw him knock out the stage hand in charge of the fly system and then flee the scene when things grew chaotic.

Erik saw her expression and stepped away, an alarmed expression on his face. "Christine… I didn't—"

"Oh Erik, of course you had nothing to do with this, but everyone will think it's the opera ghost!"

Erik relaxed a bit, but his face remained hard. "Let them. They have always thought it was me for any mishap. I think we both know who is behind this, Mlle. Daaé."

She shook her head in disbelief. "I can't believe he would do something so horrid! Raoul was vindictive and cruel… but this is insane!"

"Let us talk more when you are safe." He warned and fell quiet; beginning to lead her back to the lair. His heart was burning with rage and concern for her.

Down beneath the chaos, all remained still and serene. The troubles of the outside world had always seemed to disappear once Christine crossed the boundary of light and dark.

"Are… you alright, Erik? I had thought you dead!"

He nodded to her. "I am fine. It takes far more than a falling chandelier to kill me. What of you? This hurts me too deeply to see that you were in so much danger," he admitted to her, taking a hand, drawing her closer and inspecting her in all of her costumed glory for any injuries that she might have sustained.

Moved by his concern, she offered him a warm smile and wrapped her arms around his neck. She kissed him deeply, displaying her feelings on the matter.

Erik kissed her deeper than he should. It betrayed his affection for her, and he held her tight even after the kiss broke. "We'll depart for Milan. Far from this place. You'll be safe there." He didn't even realize that he had just inserted himself into the narrative.

"Oh, Erik, how could I pull you away from your home? This magical place you've built?" Christine pulled back to look into his glowing eyes.

But Erik only shook his head. "This place will be here, long after I am gone. What is important is that we get you to safety...And that your patronage continues."

She cracked a smile at his insistence at being her patron. It belied something deeper that she could only hope to be true. "You wish to stay with me? Follow me all the way to Milan?" she whispered.

"It would be proper for your patron to be with you. Even if he has to be in the shadows; he should be near lest….trouble..arises."

Christine's face colored as she debated whether or not to put to words what was in her mind. "Would… that truly be just a patronage at that point?" she asked carefully, afraid of the answer.

"It...uh...It could be looked at that way, to avoid suspicions...of course," he said, hastily, not looking her in the eyes.

Christine's smile grew as she watched the man struggle. She could work with that.

Above, things were not so serene. The audience members had fled in an aggressive stampede, causing multiple injuries. The cast and crew ran about, confused and frightened, worrying they might be the next to fall victim to the violent Opera Ghost.

Raoul was among the crowd, wading through hysterics as he approached the stage and found it infuriatingly empty of immobile bodies. He wanted to scream in rage, but instead rushed away from the scene, toward the dressing rooms.

Below, the Phantom cared little for the petty noble's rage, or the pandemonium above. It would settle, they would rebound; they always did. What mattered was his angel, his Christine.

"Have you given any thoughts to packing for your travels? The climate in Italy..It is far different than this."

Christine shook her head, knowing very little of the world outside of France. She looked toward the overflowing closet in her underground bedroom. "I have a feeling it will not be a problem."

Madame Giry was not one to be easily bullied. However, with a pistol to her back, she felt compelled to lead the rabid man behind her to the black lake. She had been caught opening the secret mirror passageway, intending to insure Christine and Erik's safety, when the viscount crashed into the room with fire in his eyes.

"What is Italy like, teacher? It sounds like something from a fairytale," Christine asked, her eyes as wide and full of wonder as a child's.

"Different and yet absolutely the same. Hotter in the summer," Erik responded with a bit of a smile. "It will do you good to see the culture in which so much of your art comes from."

With that, he would hear a sound in the distance. A boat, noisily crashing through the black waters of the lake.

"We are not alone," he announced to Christine. "Quick, in here." With that, he would motion her to an armoire closet, pushing her gently inside. As she entered, she would realize just how deep Erik's obsession for her went: Dresses of every cut and color, all perfectly tailored for her.

She stopped short, forcing Erik to pause. "Who's dresses are all of these?" She asked, thinking they were of some past lover's.

"Yours. Now in." He said sharply, moving to cross behind her; shutting the door behind him.

Christine obeyed immediately and found herself soon shut in complete darkness, utterly disoriented. She could feel the heat of Erik's body in front of her and pressed into him for comfort. That is, until in one moment, he was suddenly gone.

The boat slammed into the shore and Madame Giry nearly fell out of the boat. Urged by the pistol's nozzle, she climbed laboriously onto dry land and steadied herself with her cane. "This is as far as I've ever gone, Monsieur. I promise you. Please... spare me."

"You being spared has everything to do with me finding them. So I would help in that effort, if I were you," Raoul growled.

_

Erik moved quickly to prepare. He had weapons here and fully intended to use them. Firearms were far too inelegant for him. He prefered throwing knives; and of course his Punjab lasso. He moved rapidly around the lair.

When Raoul and Madame Giry entered the cavernous space, they found it to be seemingly deserted.

Raoul stepped into the strange living quarters with extreme caution, expecting the Phantom to jump out at him at any moment. He left Giry by the door with a stern glare and a promise of pain if she moved, and held his gun in front of him while he circled the area.

A voice came from his right. "Viscount. A pleasure that such nobility should grace my home. Please, lower the weapon. There is no need for such ill manners here." Of course, he was not standing to his right. He was throwing his voice, standing somewhere behind him in the shadows, creating a dizzying illusion.

Raoul swung his gun to the right, squinting his eyes in the darkness. "I am here to rescue Christine from your evil clutches! Give up the girl and I shall let you go free!" he yelled into the darkness.

"The man who undoubtedly caused the stir upstairs. I'm sure your intentions are ever so pure, Viscount. Tell me? Were you foolish enough to come alone?" The voice swirled about him, right; left, above, below.

Raoul swung around, pointing the gun at shadows, unable to pinpoint the traveling voice, the slightest bit of worry beginning to show in the corner of his eyes.

"Misseur, you've put me in a very unfortunate place. Mercy would dictate that I let you walk from this place. Yet, doing so would mean that your existence would be a continued threat to Mlle. Daaé."

A pause echoed through the room.

"Have I ever been known for mercy?"

At that, the voice would focus to a point above and behind Raoul. Erik would be perched like a cat atop several of the organ pipes, high enough that the man below wouldn't have immediately seen him. He lept down, striking out with the lasso. His aim was true and the length of fine silk rope landed around Raoul's head. Erik pulled on the rope violently as he leapt down, sending the viscount staggering toward him. Each arm's length of rope would bring him closer.

The gun went flying and Raoul gurgled, gripping fruitlessly at his throat as he was pulled forward. His eyes bulged and the veins in his neck popped as he stared into the cold eyes of The Phantom.

Suddenly, from the corner, a voice rang out. "Erik! Don't kill him!"

Erik pulled him in hard once more, tightening the noose about his neck, and lifting him to his feet with a controlling grip. "Who is going to advocate for this man?" Erik growled, trying to see who was calling for him.

Christine stepped out of the shadows, her hands in front of her, pleading. "Don't kill him, please!"

Raoul made another gurgling sound.

She looked and met Raoul's eyes. "If you kill him, we'd have to run forever. They would look for us. You wouldn't be able to show me Milan…"

A long, painful silence reigned over the lair.

Erik tightened the noose for a dangerous amount of time before loosening it.

"You live because she deems it." His feral, catlike, gaze was locked in Raoul's, searing into his soul. "Madame Giry. Take the Viscount from this place. Should he step foot inside the Palais Garnier again, you will tell me. If he does that, I will be far less merciful than I am now."

The acrid smell of urine hit the air, and Raoul collapsed as he was released, gasping and coughing for air. He began crawling away from Erik, but Christine stopped him with a quick shout.

She walked up to him and said in a calm voice, "Wait! You forgot your gun." She raised the gun previously hidden in the folds of her dress and aimed low. She cocked the pistol and pulled the trigger.

A painful shriek filled the cavernous lair as Raoul clasped his hands around his foot, blood pouring from between his fingers.

"If I ever see you again, it will be your balls next. Now crawl," she said coldly, then dropped the pistol next to the sobbing man before turning around and disappearing through her bedroom door.

Erik stood, watching the Viscount crawl way. Giry would help him into the boat, leading him back from whence he came. When they had disappeared in the distance, fading into the black lake, he finally moved towards the bedroom, standing in the doorway.

"The kitten has fangs; and claws...That was a side of you that I have not seen before, Mlle. Daaé," he announced, a smirk crossing over his face.

The kitten was currently in a pile on the floor, sobbing. Her hands covering her face, she wept loud and long, surrounded by the billowed fabric of her dress.

The smirk swiftly faded from Erik's lips and he hurried over to her. He used his strong, yet elegant hands to shift her, helping her sit up. He held her, cradling her. "Let me make the travel arrangements. We'll leave this place tomorrow, and you will be free. Free and safe."

"I wanted to shoot his face off!" Christine moaned and buried her sodden face into his shoulder.

She let him hold her for as long as he allowed, slowly quieting her tears until they stopped completely.

"There would have been worse things that could have happened," he replied softly. "But, you were right. His noble status makes for a challenge in making him disappear quickly. You did the right thing, and showed far more restraint than I would have on my own."

"Never leave me, Erik," Christine begged, clutching tightly to him. "I couldn't bear to live without you!"

He shut his eyes, nodding silently before speaking. "I couldn't see how I could, even if I tried." "Christine...I…" he began to say, but trailed off before he could finish, unable to say the words.

"You love me, Erik," she finished for him with a teary smile. "I know. I think I've always known," she shifted in his lap to face him more fully. She brought his head down to hers so she could brush her lips over his own. Once, twice, then she deepened the kiss. With one hand, she untied the ribbon holding his mask to his face and took it off, placing it to the side without breaking the kiss. She pressed against him tightly, hands on either side of his cheeks. "I love you too," she whispered against his lips.

Erik shook beneath her hands and she felt his tears hit her cheeks. Christine held him tighter as he finally let go and let his emotions pour out.

Eventually, they made their way over to the bed and made love to each other, spending their last night in the magnificent Phantom's Lair. The next day, they were on a train to Italy. They brought next to nothing with them aside from Erik's amassed fortune and scores of his composed music, soon ready to be shared with the rest of the world.


	20. Epilogue

_Oh, here is love, and here is truth,_

 _And here is food for joyous laughter:_

 _He/She will be faithful to his/her sooth_

 _Till we are wed, and even after_

 _~Pirates of Penzance, Gilbert and Sullivan_

-o-

~~~Epilogue~~~

-o-

Erik sat alone in the private dining car of their train. It wasn't technically private, but they had it reserved for this time. Only a professional looking bartender stood behind the bar, awaiting an order. Erik rose, crossing to that bartender, and ordered a glass of wine. He was dressed sharply, yet felt utterly naked. The bartender poured him a glass of Bordeaux, which Eric drank down nervously. The man looked at him a bit perplexed.

"Is something the matter, monsieur?"

"No, not at all. I just..don't like trains."

"Ah, well, we will be arriving in Milano before you know it," The bartender replied dutifully.

Truthfully, that wasn't why he was nervous. He was to have dinner with Christine, who was currently getting dressed. She was to meet him here. What she would not be expecting was the fact that he was not wearing his mask. She...seemed to accept him as he was. Perhaps, then, it was time for him to accept himself in the same manner.

A short time later, Christine entered wearing a gold and ivory dress, immaculately fitted and the perfect shade to highlight the gold tones in her hair, which she had kept down as flowing over her shoulders. She startled when she looked up to his face and an immediate, loving smile spread across her face. She rushed over to him and took his head between her hands, guiding it down so she could kiss him. "I am so proud to be yours," she murmured, kissing each cheek, first the perfect one, then the ruined.

Erik was nearly shaking. Being out like this without the mask was a new and terrifying experience for him. "And I am honored that you are mine...You look so beautiful, Christine." He kissed her once more, slowly; on the lips.

She finally, reluctantly, pulled away. "As do you, Erik," she responded honestly. "Now what do you have planned for us this evening?"

"Dinner, and then whatever we wish on the confines of this train," he said simply, giving her an uneven smile.

"I can think of a few things to pass the time," she teased with a glint in her eyes.

He gave her a look, glancing back to the bartender who was dutifully minding his own business. "Pray tell, what did you have in mind?" He asked, his voice dropping to a growl.

Christine stepped away and slid her hands down his chest, feeling the defined muscle under the shirt. "Perhaps dinner could even wait a little longer. Why don't you show me the sleeper car- you promised it to be quite avant- garde," she responded, pulling him toward the door.

~Le Fin~


	21. Excerpt of the following companion piece

AN: This is an excerpt from He Loves Me's companion piece. It follows Colette's story as she finds her own way towards love. This scene is a different perspective of that fateful night at the opera. ~o~ Excerpt from Lovely Lady, a Victorian romance inspired by the movie Pretty Woman. ~o~ She thought she had seen the the edge of opulence the night before - he was terribly, dizzingly wrong. The Opera Garnier was more decadent than even her dreams. She could not have even imagined such beauty. Colette gripped strongly onto Matthieu's arm, overwhelmed as they walked through the pre-show reception in the Grand Hall.

He drew her in, hor'devours being served as they mingled. A couple of aristocrats of similar age to Matthieu approached them. Small talk ensued, where they discussed the soprano who was to be making her premiere tonight.

"I heard this Christine was a ballet dancer. What an ascension, quite the rise in status, don't you think?" The man asked; looking nearly directly to Collette for input

Colette jerked visibly the first time Christine's name was mentioned. Christine was not an uncommon name, and she had no reason to suspect anything amiss other than the violent reaction she had in her belly hearing the name she knew so intimately. "It is always intriguing when one elevates one's status. Growth should be admired, should it not? Even if it is in social revenue," she replied with bravado. She had no idea what she was talking about. She knew nothing of this poor girl and even less of social status.

"I heard that she has a teacher that no one knows anything about...some masterful teacher who taught her everything she knows. I've never heard of him; nor has anyone else."

Matthieu shrugged. "Perhaps it is the Opera Ghost that haunts this place," he teased, taking a sip of his wine, not once thinking it to be serious.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
 _It's her. The courtesan. She is hear with a man, a suitor? No. Yes? Lines are blurred. He hired her, but there is more than that. Why is she here? Did she mean to humiliate him? Harm Christine? Did she discover his identity?_

Behind the pillar to her right, the Phantom watched Colette from his hiding place. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The other couple laughed at the mention of the opera spectre. Belatedly, Colette joined, not quite understanding the joke. She would have to ask Matthieu later. The couple found her lovely, which surprised Colette as much as it pleased her; they were lovely in their own right. Unpretentious and more interested in the art of the opera rather than the politics. Colette and Matthieu mingled a bit more over the next hour. Either the occasion had people on their best behavior or the venue brought something softer, kinder in the crowd: she felt accepted. Interesting even. Colette began to relax and truly enjoy herself. The lights flickered - electric lights! She had not been under so many electric lights in her entire life as she had in the past forty-eight hours! - and the crowd slowly began to move toward the auditorium doors.

 _Heavens, she was made for this life, wasn't she? There would be no needing to "train" her, or to teach her to adjust. No, she would fit right in. Dear God, he couldn't leave her. Could he?_ Matthieu studied the lines of Colette's form as she gracefully moved with the crowd.

 _Merde. I'm damned,_ Matthieu thought as he led her up the grand staircase and toward his private box. _Of course she would be in a box_ , Colette thought. She barely knew what a box was, but she knew it was not for the average patron. The auditorium was as fantastic as the Grand Hall. She could barely sit in her seat, wanting to lean over the banister and gawk at the ceiling. She felt like she was on top of the world, looking down on everyone else. It was magical! Matthieu offered her opera glasses. "You look through these, and then you can see better." He smiled as he reclined in his red velvet chair. A waitress stepped in, offering champagne to both of them, which they accepted graciously.

"Enjoying yourself? You look perfectly at place to this." Matthieu commented with a smile. She answered with a nod as she gawked through the opera glasses at the crowd.

The lights dimmed and the orchestra began to tune. Her grin was wide and she was practically bouncing in her seat. "Tell me about this opera, Matthieu! What am I about to see?" she whispered to the man next to her. "A high level courtesan falls in love with a rich man...Their love ends in tragedy, with her catching tuberculosis and passing," he responded, murmuring as the orchestra continued their tuning.

She blinked. "Oh. Of course." She awkwardly looked away as the overture began and the curtain opened.

He gave her a smirk. "The similarity to you was coincidental, just so you know," he murmured, reaching over to take her hand. Colette didn't know how to take that, but she took his hand and once more raised her opera glasses toward the stage which was filling up with actors. She had no emotional response to his words - why would she care if the subject matter is a courtesan? In love? It wasn't HER life.

Across the auditorium, the Phantom watched both women from his box. His should have solely have been on Christine. Yet he could not let go of the fact that his other woman was here in his domain. Her presence troubled him. One revealing move on her part could seriously destabilize his role here...and his role in Christine's life. ~~~~~~ WHen Christine stepped onto the stage and charmed the crowd, Colette immediately knew. Her face paled as she saw the near mirror image of her right in front of her, singing like an angel and looking like a temptress. The nights of her face being shoved into a pillow as Master Erik played with her hair and cooed words of love and devotion. The Ballerina costumes - of course Christine was someone from the Opera. She felt stupid. Stupid and betrayed, even though she knew nothing was technically done wrong.  
Matthieu sensed a bit of tension coming from her, and gave her a worried look as the first intermission began. "Are you enjoying it?" He asked, a bit concerned.

Her face still pale, Colette nodded hollowly, still looking at the stage, now blanketed in red curtain. "I… wasn't expecting such an emotional reaction, " she said weakly, trying to smile. "Was that it? I expected it to be longer."

"That was the first act, there are three of them, with intermissions in between each." Matthieu paused, narrowing his gaze. "Should we retire for the evening? I did not mean to distress you." "No!" Colette nearly shouted, then began more quietly, "no, please, I am enjoying this greatly. Please let's stay?" There was a discreet knock on the door and the waitress entered with more champagne and some cheese. Colette was grateful for an activity that precluded her from talking more on the matter. She pinched a bit of cheese between her fingers and offered it in front of Matthieu 's mouth, which he accepted with a smile.

"Good, I was hoping you'd say that. I'm enjoying this greatly, and the company could not be any better," he replied, trying hard to not think of their eventual parting tomorrow; all in the back of his head a quiet voice spoke, telling him that it did not need to be that way. That he could take her home. Colette smiled warmly and and licked her fingers after serving Matthieu the cheese. "Thank you for this," she whispered and leaned in to kiss his lips. He kissed her slowly, his hand caressing her cheek. Pulling her towards him he deepened the kiss, his mind beginning to wander from the opera that was to start soon, thinking more of her in a secluded space in the theatre.

The orchestra began again, but they barely noticed. Colette shifted on her seat to lean closer to Matthieu and continue the passionate embrace. Her hands pressed against his chest, creating tension between their bodies. One slippered foot began rubbing against his ankle. Matthieu pressed back against her, kissing her deeply, his leg brushing against hers. Hands traced over her cheek, down, her neck, lower, over her shoulder before grazing her breast with his hand. ~~~~~~  
The Phantom watched, biting his bottom lip. A mixture of desire and anger coursed through him. _How dare this man have his whore in his own domain?! This...Certainly, this would not go unpunished._ ~~~~~ She arched into his touch and as the lights went down over the audience, Colette shifted from her chair to Matthieu's lap and pressing her breasts into his chest. Sex at the opera house was not an unheard of thing. Matthieu kissed her hard, shifting her dress; seeking flesh. Pulling back, he looked up; meeting her gaze, teasingly murmuring, "You'll miss the show if you continue this…"  
~ She grinned wickedly. "Which show?" She laughed and twirled around, now sitting on his lap with her back to him, looking out over the audience and proscenium. She wiggled a bit on his lap, feeling the hardness underneath her layers of clothing

Act two began, opening with the tenor's aria, singing about how happy he was with his life with his courtesan love. Matthieu knew, though, that such joy would be short lived, and so he thought that perhaps he had a similarity with this character now. He rocked his hips against the woman on his lap, grinding slightly as his hands snaked about her corseted waist.

Cosette rocked back, grinding against him. She turned her head to kiss him over her shoulder. She twisted to unbuckle his pants. She bounced as she shifted her skirts away from her. She rode him quietly yet deeply. She watched the performance as they rocked together. She watched the more beautiful, more beloved version of her on the stage as she heard Matthieu get close.

As she rode him, his hands rocked against her hips, guiding her. It was subtle, unnoticable. He made sure to stifle any moans, and muffle any sounds. She was so addictive, so good at what she did. He bit her neck, stifling his moan as he let his orgasm consume him. After discretely cleaning themselves, they finished the act with broad grins. During the intermission, Colette excused herself to go make some adjustments in the lady's room. Walking confidently, she traversed the beautifully ornate hallway. It almost made her stagger, how beautiful the bathroom was. Well, of course it was. She couldn't help but gush about it like a child when she returned to their box. The intimate act helped her relax and even enjoy the opera, even if being in Mlle. Daa's presence created a pain in her heart. By the end of the opera, she was silently but openly weeping for poor Violetta.

As the opera ended, Matthieu looked to Colette with a slightly sad smile. The story was tragic, but he was happy to have shared that with her. Kissing her softly, he finally spoke. "So what did you think of it?" She buried her head in his shoulder. "They were all fools!," she exclaimed sullenly. She was so angry at the characters! Why should it matter at all? Why should she feel this way about people who didn't even exsist? "They shouldn't have ended like that," She mourned.

"That is the tragedy of it," he explained, softly. "I would have liked for a happy ending, but...things do not always work out that way." He gave her a soft smile, and traced his hand over her waist.

Colette snorted sadly at that. _Indeed_ , she thought. Bidding the Opera House goodbye was a difficult event for she knew that she would never be able to return again. 


End file.
